'You  can't  call  me  a  piker,  at  any  rate!"  I  said 


Supertales  of 

MODERN  MY5TLRY 

By  Arthur  Stringer 


THE  HOUSE  OF  INTRIGUE 


McKINLAY,  STONE  tf  MACKENZIE 

NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT  1918 
TUX  BOBBS-MZRRILL  COMPANY 


,  SRLF 

5140931  URL 


THE  HOUSE  OF 
INTRIGUE 


CHAPTER  ONE 

BEFORE  the  tent-flap  of  every  woman's  soul,  I 
think,  sleeps  a  wolf-hound  that  answers  to  the 
name  of  Instinct.  And  Instinct  stood  up  and 
showed  the  white  of  an  eye  as  Big  Ben  Locke 
crossed  over  to  the  office  door  and  swung  it  shut. 

"Baddie,"  he  said,  as  he  sank  back  in  his  creaking 
swivel  chair,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I've  got  to 
talk  to  you." 

"About  what  ?"  I  asked,  wondering  as  to  the  ori- 
gin of  this  newborn  need  of  intimacy. 

"About  MJ!"  he  declared,  as  he  sat  there  blinking 
down  at  his  desk-top,  apparently  digesting  that  un- 
looked-for audacity  of  bracketing  his  august  self 
with  one  of  his  younger  operatives.  And  low  was 
the  growl  from  that  four-footed  shadow  standing 
on  guard  over  the  timorous  souls  of  women.  For 
life  had  long  since  taught  me  to  beware  the  man  of 

1 


2  THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

power  with  meekness  in  his  eye.  Yet  I  waited,  out- 
wardly calm,  for  the  Chief  to  continue. 

"You're  kind  of  tired  out,  aren't  you,  Baddie?" 
he  ventured,  in  a  sort  of  eager  solicitude,  as  he 
finally  let  his  eye  meet  mine.  It  was  that  glance  of 
his,  more  than  the  question  itself,  which  made  the 
ghost-hound  still  growling  from  the  door-mat  of 
my  soul  suddenly  lift  his  nose  in  the  air  and  kai-yai 
aloud. 

"I  don't  think  I've  ever  complained,"  I  parried, 
doing  my  best  to  buckle  on  that  armor  of  imperson- 
ality which  half  a  million  business  girls  of  America 
have  learned  to  don,  morning  by  morning,  as  surely 
as  they  don  their  straight-fronts. 

"But  what  would  you  say  to  a  little  holiday?"  the 
Chief  was  asking  me,  with  a  sort  of  hang-dog  wist- 
fulness  that  made  my  heart  go  down,  floor  by  floor, 
like  a  freight  elevator,  until  it  bumped  against  the 
very  bed-rock  of  desperation. 

"Where  ?"  I  rather  inanely  asked,  trying  to  cover 
up  the  catch  in  my  breath.  For  Big  Ben  Locke  had 
always  struck  me  as  a  man  of  iron,  as  something 
as  solid  as  a  locomotive.  In  and  out  of  that  office 
he'd  always  seemed  to  swing  through  his  cluster 
of  operatives,  men  and  women  alike,  about  the  same 
as  the  Transcontinental  Limited  swings  through  the 


THE    HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE  3 

clump  of  track-navvies  who  step  quietly  aside  to  let 
the  big  Mogul  thunder  past. 

"Anywhere  you  say,"  he  explained  in  his  heavy 
chest-tones.  "Long  Beach  for  three  or  four  days, 
or  a  run  down  to  Hot  Springs !" 

"On  a  case?"  I  queried.  Yet  I  tried  to  make  it 
more  a  prompt  cue  than  a  question,  in  a  sort  of 
frantic  eagerness  to  get  the  big  Mogul  safely  back 
on  the  rails. 

"No,  Baddie,"  he  announced  with  a  deliberation 
which  seemed  to  translate  that  announcement  into 
an  ultimatum,  "just  for  a  holiday!"  And  hope 
went  out  of  my  heart  like  light  out  of  a  room  when 
a  switch  is  turned.  For  I  knew  then  what  he  meant. 
I  knew  it  beyond  a  shadow  of  doubt.  And  if  Big 
Ben  Locke  had  quietly  reached  to  his  desk  and  taken 
up  an  Indian  pogamoggan  and  with  it  struck  me 
over  the  head,  I  don't  think  I  could  have  been  more 
startled.  It  was  unbelievable.  It  was  unfair.  It 
was  unreasonable.  It  was  as  absurb  as  standing 
there  and  witnessing  a  Tottenville  coast-gun  try- 
ing to  do  a  fox-trot. 

"I  don't — don't  understand,"  I  quavered,  trying 
to  swallow  my  bewilderment.  For  always,  in  that 
office,  I'd  been  taught  to  cover  up  every  warmer 
impulse  of  life,  to  hide  my  human  feelings  under  a 


4  THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

false  front  of  cynicism,  the  same  as  bald-headed 
men  hide  their  barren  bumps  of  veneration  by  fes- 
tooning them  with  side-fringes  from  below  the  tim- 
ber-line. I  prided  myself  on  knowing  the  world, 
and  its  shams.  But  no  woman,  I've  concluded,  can 
be  sure  of  any  man's  character  until  she's  seen  and 
studied  him  for  half  a  lifetime,  and  then,  like  the 
poor  old  philosopher  in  Pisgah  Sights,  the  light  of 
wisdom  dawns  on  her  only  when  they  start  lettering 
her  tombstone. 

"I'm  trying  to  make  you  understand,"  explained 
Big  Ben,  in  his  grim  and  ponderous  meekness.  "For 
I  may  as  well  tell  you  now,  straight  out,  Baddie,  that 
you've  got  me  beat !" 

"Got  you  beat!"  And  I  echoed  that  odious 
phrase  in  a  helpless  sort  of  gasp,  for  I  saw  my  posi- 
tion in  that  office  suddenly  blowing  up  like  a  pink- 
and-blue  circus-balloon.  And  that  position  had  grown 
into  something  more  than  a  mere  habit  with  me. 
It  had  become  a  necessity.  It  held  me  up  in  the 
world,  the  same  as  a  nursery  "walker"  holds  up  a 
child  still  uncertain  as  to  the  use  of  its  legs. 

"You're  different,  of  course,"  continued  the 
heavy-jawed  man  in  the  swivel  chair.  "And  that's 
what  I  like  about  you.  You're — " 

"Don't!"  I  said,  trying  to  keep  him  from  notic- 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE  5 

ing  the  shake  in  my  knees.  I  hated  to  see  him  stare 
at  me  with  those  hungry-looking  eyes  of  his,  like  an 
old  mastiff's.  It  seemed  to  demean  him,  that  incon- 
gruous humility  of  his,  almost  as  much  as  it  de- 
meaned me.  It  seemed  to  leave  the  whole  world 
fetid  and  tainted,  like  the  smoke-laden  and  breathed- 
over  air  of  a  "revue"  theater  when  you  happen  in 
on  the  last  act.  It  made  me  ache  for  out-of-doors, 
for  the  final  sanity  of  a  fresh  wind  against  my  face. 

There  was  a  time,  I  remembered,  when  it  might 
not  have  meant  so  much  to  me.  But  things  were 
different  now.  I'd  worn  the  shoe-leather  of  civili- 
zation, and  I  had  to  face  its  penalty  of  being  tender- 
footed.  So  a  feeling  strangely  like  hate  smoldered 
deep  down  in  my  heart,  hate  for  that  heavy-bodied 
animal  who  seemed  something  of  the  Stone  Age 
where  man  stunned  his  dinner  with  a  club  and  ate 
it  raw. 

"Baddie,"  that  poor  purblind  cave-man  in  the 
twentieth-century  swivel  chair  was  trying  to  tell 
me,  "you're  too  hanged  good-looking  for  this  sleuth- 
ing work  here !" 

I  looked  at  him.  He  seemed  almost  pathetic,  with 
that  sirupy  sort  of  smile  wrinkling  his  big  ursine 
face.  And  for  a  moment  I  was  able  to  remarshal 
my  scattering  lines  of  courage. 


6  THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"You  didn't  tell  me  that,"  I  somewhat  tremu- 
lously reminded  him,  "when  you  took  me  into  this 
office.  You  took  the  pains  to  announce,  in  fact,  that 
an  operative  who  didn't  look  like  a  hen-hawk  and 
dress  like  a  scrub- woman  would  be  of  special  value 
to  you  in  your  work !" 

But  argument,  before  that  barbaric  method  of 
attack,  was  out  of  the  question.  It  was  like  trying 
to  hold  discourse  with  a  hungry  grizzly.  And  my 
helplessness  in  the  whole  thing  sent  a  tidal  wave  of 
exasperation  through  my  tingling  body. 

"But  you're  too  young  for  all  this,  Baddie,"  my 
sad-eyed  ogre  of  persecution  went  on.  "It's  too 
full  of  danger  for  a  girl  like  you !" 

"So  it  seems !"  was  my  bitter  retort.  But  it  went 
from  him,  like  water  off  a  duck's  back. 

"It's  full  of  risks,  my  dear,  full  of  risks,"  he  went 
lumbering  on,  as  though  his  paternalism  with  a 
string  to  it  were  the  last  haven  for  the  storm-tossed 
heart  of  youth. 

"I  think  that  was  the  part  of  it  which  rather  ap^ 
pealed  to  me,"  I  contended,  with  a  final  effort  at 
calmness.  "And  I  don't  think  I  ever  complained 
about  its  dangers,  its  honest  dangers." 

"No,  you  haven't,"  admitted  the  Chief.   "And  I 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE  7 

like  you  for  it.    I  like  you  a  mighty  lot.    And  I  want 
to  make  life  easier  for  you.    I  want — " 

At  that  I  cut  him  short. 

"How  are  you  going  to  make  life  easier  for  me?" 
I  suddenly  and  shrilly  demanded,  with  Caution  no 
longer  standing  there  and  plucking  me  by  the  sleeve. 
I'd  seen  enough  of  the  world  to  know  when  a  situa- 
tion such  as  this  had  become  hopeless.  And  in  my 
heart  of  hearts  I  realized  that  I'd  reached  my  Rubi- 
con, and  that  I  had  to  cross  it. 

For  a  moment  or  two  there  was  no  response  to 
that  challenge  of  mine.  Then  we  both  rose  from 
our  chairs,  slowly  and  deliberately.  It  was  almost 
ridiculous.  You  may  have  noticed  two  pullets  do 
much  the  same  thing,  two  chicken-run  combatants 
coming  slowly  up  together  and  continuing  to  eye 
each  other  as  they  go  circling  slowly  about  with  their 
neck- feathers  all  ruffled  up. 

"Don't  you  think,"  Big  Ben  quietly  yet  ponder- 
ously asked  me  as  he  rounded  his  desk-end,  "don't 
you  think  love  can  always  make  it  that  way?" 

It  made  me  gasp.  And  as  I  backed  away  from  the 
big  hand  which  he  reached  out  toward  my  shoulder  I 
saw,  as  clear  as  daylight,  the  cowardly  advantage 
he  was  taking  of  his  position. 


8  THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

"What  is  Mrs.  Locke's  opinion  of  that?"  I  asked, 
trying  hard  to  swallow  the  sudden  choke  in  my 
throat.  But  that  choke  couldn't  be  swallowed,  for 
instead  of  being  in  my  neck,  it  was  somewhere  in 
my  heart  I  didn't  want  to  laugh.  But  I  made 
myself,  for  I  knew  that  if  I  didn't  laugh  I'd  be  cry- 
ing like  a  baby  and  covering  a  perfectly  good  blue 
serge  waist-front  with  spots. 

There  weren't  many  people,  I  knew,  could  afford 
to  laugh  at  Big  Ben  Locke.  I  wasn't  ignorant  of 
what  it  would  cost  me,  for  the  same  hand  that  had 
wielded  that  uncouth  pogamoggan  was  also  the  hand 
that  doled  out  the  wampum.  I  could  see  what  was 
coming.  But  I  didn't  care  any  longer.  The  pres- 
sure was  more  than  I  could  stand.  So  I  let  the 
gates  swing  open  and  the  flood  go  tumbling  out.  I 
simply  blew  up,  as  poor  old  Bud  Griswold  would 
have  phrased  it. 

"Listen  to  me,"  I  said,  as  I  faced  the  master  of 
that  office.  "You  may  be  a  great  detective,  and  you 
may  control  the  pay  envelope  of  a  couple  of  hundred 
people,  but  until  you're  man  enough  to  know  the 
difference  between  decency  and  indecency  you're 
never  going  to  keep  one  kind  of  woman  on  your 
pay-list.  And  I'm  that  kind.  Until  you're  able  to 
detect  the  difference  between  a  girl  who's 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE  9 

"Wait !"  interrupted  the  Chief. 

"No,  I  can't  wait,  and  I  won't  wait,"  I  flung  back 
at  him,  "for  I've  waited  too  long.  You  may  use 
what  you  call  a  down-and-outer  in  petticoats  for  a 
few  lines  of  your  work,  but  don't  make  the  mistake 
of  putting  me  in  that  class  because  I  happened  to  do 
some  of  this  work  for  you.  It  may  have  called  for 
a  shell  of  coarseness,  more  often  than  not,  and  I 
gave  you  what  you  wanted.  I  wore  commonness 
for  you,  the  same  as  I  wore  this  nickel  badge  of 
yours.  And  I  may  have  picked  up  the  trick  of 
handing  over  your  Eighth  Ward  style  of  talk  be- 
cause you  pointed  out  that  it  often  paid  in  your  line 
of  business.  But  I've  lived  clean,  and  I'm  going  to 
stay  clean.  You  even  thought  you  could  break  my 
spirit  by  giving  me  the  worst  of  your  rough-neck 
work  in  that  Antonino  abduction  case.  I  didn't  even 
object  when  you  used  me  as  a  plant  for  that  Mann- 
Act  photographer  up  in  the  Arcade  Building  when 
he  advertised  for  figure-models.  And  you  put  me 
through  some  moves  that  c  .  /  an  honest  woman 
would  have  endured  when  we  rounded  up  that 
Brooklyn  false-claims  couple.  But  I  swallowed  it 
all  because  I  knew  I  was  working  on  the  side  of  the 
law.  Then  it  began  to  dawn  on  you  that  I  could  do 
the  finer  lines  of  work,  and  you  began  by  dressing 


10         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

me  up  and  using  me  as  a  spotter  on  that  Fifth 
Avenue  bus-route.  Then  you  saw  I  wasn't  a  failure 
on  that  Rosenthal  wire-tapping  case  and  even  de- 
cided to  send  me  into  society.  You  found  you  could 
rent  me  out  as  a  guard  for  those  Fifth  Avenue 
weddings  where  the  bride's  family  don't  seem  above 
stealing  back  the  silver  butter-dishes  if  they  get  the 
chance.  I  could  go  among  those  guests  without  any 
of  them  dreaming  I  wasn't  one  of  them.  I  could 
live  at  the  St.  Regis  for  three  weeks,  when  I  had  to 
shadow  those  Nevada  mine-swindlers  for  you,  with- 
out even  the  house-detective  finding  out  I  wasn't  one 
of  the  Four  Hundred.  And  I  didn't  object  to  any 
of  that  work.  I  almost  liked  the  excitement  of  it. 
I  was  helping  you  to  run  down  crooks.  And  I  soon 
saw  how  clever  you  were  at  that  work.  You  seemed 
to  know  all  their  tricks,  and  just  how  their  minds 
worked,  and  just  what  they'd  do  under  any  given 
conditions.  And  now  I  know  why.  You  could 
understand  them,  and  forestall  them,  every  move, 
because  you  were  one  of  them.  I  know,  now,  that 
you  were  nothing  but — " 

"Stop !"  boomed  out  Big  Ben,  and  I  had  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  his  color  deepen. 

"But  you  don't  know  women,  Mr.  Locke,"  I  swept 
on,  for  the  whole  thing  had  rather  gone  to  my  head 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          11 

and  I  was  as  drunk  as  a  reservation  buck  in  the  last 
steps  of  a  sun-dance.  "And  you  don't  know  what 
decency  is,  or  you'd  never  have  cheapened  your 
name  and  your  work  the  way  you've  cheapened  it 
right  here  in  this  office.  And  I  repeat  that  I've 
never  objected  to  working  for  the  law.  But  I  do  ob- 
ject to  working  for  a  yellow  cur.  And  as  I  consider 
you  one,  I'm  going  to  walk  out  of  this  office  and 
this  position  before  you  can  make  a  bluff  at  savins 
that  broken-winded  dignity  of  yours  by  discharging 
me!" 

My  hands  were  shaking  and  something  had  un- 
doubtedly gone  wrong  with  my  knee-joints,  but  I 
managed  to  pull  on  my  gloves  and  cross  to  the  door 
as  my  last  machine-gun  of  rage  emptied  itself 
against  his  aldermanic  vest-front.  And  before  Big 
Ben  Locke  could  get  his  breath  or  sink  back  in  his 
swivel  chair  I  stepped  through  that  door  and 
slammed  it  after  me,  slammed  it  so  hard  that  the 
glass  rattled  in  the  frame  and  little  Dugmore,  in  the 
outer  office,  stared  at  me  with  eyes  as  round  as 
saucers. 

I  didn't  even  wait  to  take  the  elevator.  I  walked 
down.  And  when  I  landed  on  Broadway  I  felt  as 
though  I'd  fallen  from  a  Turkish-bath  steam-room, 
I  scarcely  knew  which  way  I  headed.  But  I  kept 


12         THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

on  walking,  for  there  was  a  fever  in  my  blood  that 
made  me  see  double. 

I  may  have  saved  my  self-respect,  but,  in  the 
language  of  the  worker,  I'd  lost  my  job.  I'd  lost  my 
job!  That  fact  kept  going  back  and  forth  in  the 
empty  garret  of  my  head,  like  a  bat  in  a  house  attic. 
I'd  had  my  say;  I'd  set  off  my  fire-works;  I'd  eased 
my  soul  of  its  anger;  but  now  there  was  the  piper  to 
pay. 

I  was  more  than  humiliated ;  I  was  stunned.  Ben- 
jamin Locke  had  seemed  something  almost  blood- 
less to  me,  as  cold  and  metallic  a  thing  as  the  Sher- 
man statue  in  the  Plaza..  It  gave  me  sudden  and 
sickening  doubts  as  to  my  own  personality,  to  re- 
member how  I'd  been  the  instrument  that  had 
brought  Big  Ben  down  from  his  pedestal.  Was  I 
the  wrong  sort,  after  all?  I  kept  asking  myself. 
Were  all  my  ideas  about  fair  dealing  and  right 
living  only  talk,  only  the  crazy  ideal  of  convent 
girls  who  forget  the  turgid  streams  that  flow 
through  every  great  city?  And  was  the  fight  I'd 
been  making  for  a  footing  in  that  upper  world  noth- 
ing more  than  the  moonshine  Big  Ben's  overtures 
tried  to  make  it?  And  was  it  even  worth  while,  I 
asked  myself. 

Something,  in  that  moment  of  stress,  fell  away 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          13 

from  me,  and  left  me  half  pagan  again.  Across 
two  long  years  of  respectability  came  some  ghostly 
call  of  the  wild,  vaguely  unsettling  me,  as  the  sud- 
den beat  of  tomtoms  might  disturb  the  stateliest 
porter  who  ever  wore  the  uniform  of  the  Pullman 
Company.  It  took  me  back  to  the  old  manner  of 
thought  and  speech  and  made  me  ask  if  it  wouldn't 
be  better  to  slip  down  to  Slim  Totten's  hang-out 
and  inquire  if  he  wasn't  in  need  of  a  gun-moll  to 
gay-cat  for  him  in  his  established  profession  of 
bank-sneak?  Or  swing  in  with  Trigger  Lennygan 
on  his  annual  migration  to  the  Pacific  Coast  as  a 
hotel-beat  ?  For  I  had  a  sudden  hunger  to  put  space 
between  me  and  the  scene  of  my  humiliation.  I  had 
a  feeling  that  San  Francisco  and  Los  Angeles  would 
seem  more  home-like  than  this  sodden  Great  White 
Way  that  was  no  more  white  than  the  flue  of  a 
smoke-stack  is  white. 

But  I  knew,  once  I'd  thought  it  over,  that  there 
could  be  no  going  back.  I  hadn't  the  courage,  for 
courage  is  the  first  thing  that  civilization  seems  to 
take  away  from  us.  I  hadn't  climbed  far,  on  that 
upward  trail,  but  to  get  even  where  I  had  got  had 
cost  me  too  much  to  let  me  think  of  slipping  back 
into  that  Black  Valley  behind  me.  When  a  girl 
is  fighting  for  a  lost  position,  I'd  found,  it's  almost 


14         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

harder  than  fighting  for  life  itself.  There's  always 
some  one,  when  she's  fighting  for  the  latter,  to 
throw  her  a  life-buoy.  But  every  buoy  she  gets,  in 
the  other  sort  of  fight,  comes  with  a  line  to  it,  a  line 
which  may  look  like  rescue  at  one  end  but  turns  into 
something  terribly  like  capture  at  the  other. 

No,  I  told  myself,  I  couldn't  go  back !  There  were 
certain  things  now  that  would  always  make  a  dif- 
ference. The  rabbit-dog,  I  remembered,  always 
had  the  advantage  of  the  cotton-tail.  It's  better 
being  the  hunter  than  the  hunted, — and  it's  incom- 
parably more  comfortable.  It's  safer  having  a 
nickel  badge  under  your  coat-lapel  than  a  record  on 
the  police-blotter  that  gives  you  prairie-squint  look- 
ing for  Central  Office  "singed  cats."  I'd  even  grown 
to  like  the  rabbit-dog  side  of  the  business,  with  all 
the  machinery  of  Big  Ben  Locke's  offices  to  back 
me  up  when  it  came  to  a  tangled  trail  and  all  the 
majesty  of  the  law  of  the  commonwealth  to  inter- 
pose an  arm  when  it  came  to  a  tight  corner. 

But  I'd  lost  my  position!  That  dolorous  fact 
kept  tolling  at  the  back  of  my  head,  the  same  as  the 
bells  of  Trinity  toll  above  the  noonday  tumult  of 
Wall  Street.  And  I'd  never  been  the  sort  of  girl 
that  had  new  positions  forever  whimpering  at  her 
heels.  The  only  other  offer  I'd  had  was  from  the 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE          15 

man  with  the  three-carat  diamond  in  the  Asteroid 
Theater  Building.  He  had  told  me  that  if  I  "fleshed 
up"  he  thought  he  could  place  me  in  a  road  company 
at  twenty  dollars  a  week.  That  was  earlier  in  the 
year,  when,  like  about  every  other  empty-headed 
girl  out  of  work,  I  considered  the  possibility  of 
stepping  up  into  stage  work,  very  much  the  same 
as  you  step  into  an  air-ship,  and  floating  off  among 
the  stars  that  spell  their  own  names  to  the  skies  in 
colored  electric  bulbs. 

But  I  hadn't  "fleshed  up."  The  hot  weather  and 
the  worry  of  it  all,  in  fact,  had  left  me  as  thin  as 
a  rail,  and  often,  in  the  elevator  mirrors,  I  grimly 
asked  myself  why  somebody  didn't  mistake  me  for 
the  poison  label  on  a  medicine  bottle.  One  thing, 
however,  I  still  possessed.  And  that  was  the  ironi- 
cally well-tailored  raiment  in  which  the  Locke  office 
had  togged  me  out.  Those  clothes,  I  knew,  would 
have  to  take  the  place  of  the  back  pay  which  the 
Chief  would  never  now  surrender.  And  fine  feath- 
ers, I  also  knew,  usually  made  fine  birds.  So  then 
and  there  I  decided  to  go  back  to  the  three-carat 
diamond  man  and  ask  him  to  reopen  that  road-com- 
pany offer.  For  above  all  things  I  was  afraid  of 
idleness.  I  was  nothing  but  a  sort  of  human  whip- 
top,  and  unless  something  kept  me  on  the  move,  al- 


16          THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

ways  on  the  move,  there  was  the  never-ending  dan- 
ger of  going  over. 

That  decision  brought  me  back  to  earth  again. 
I  looked  about  me,  took  my  bearings,  and  resolutely 
headed  for  the  Asteroid  Theater  Building.  I  drifted 
back  down  Broadway  with  a  sudden  new  hope  in 
my  heart.  The  tide  had  already  turned.  I  kept 
repeating  poor  old  Bud  Griswold's  slogan  to  the 
effect  that  it  always  pays  to  keep  up  a  good  front. 
For  as  Bud  used  to  say,  I  never  could  be  strong  on 
the  crape  and  broken-column  business.  And  I  for- 
got to  notice  that  that  tourist's  slum  known  as  the 
Great  White  Way  was  as  ugly  as  it  had  seemed  a 
short  half -hour  before. 

I  was  quite  composed  as  I  sent  in  my  card  to  the 
three-carat  man,  who  was  alone  in  his  office  at  the 
end  of  a  day's  work.  Then  I  strolled  into  the  room 
that  was  blue  with  cigar-smoke  and  confronted  the 
three-carat  man  in  person.  His  name  was  Heydt. 
And  he  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

He  smiled  as  he  swung  half-way  round  in  his 
swivel  chair.  I  thought  at  first  that  it  was  a  kindly 
smile. 

"So  you've  come  back  after  that  road-company 
work,  eh?"  he  said,  as  he  relit  his  well  chewed  cigar. 
I  noticed  that  he  did  not  smoke  with  a  dry  lip.  And 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          17 

his  lips  were  thick,  so  the  madura-brown  was  well 
spread. 

"Then  you  remember  me?"  I  cooed,  with  a  flutter 
of  self-satisfied  hope. 

"Sure,"  was  his  easy  rejoinder.  He  leaned  back  in 
his  chair  and  looked  me  over.  I  knew  then,  in  one 
flash,  why  I'd  always  hated  the  thought  of  stage 
work.  It  was  that  look,  the  look  that  came  from 
all  of  them,  the  look  that  I  knew  would  forever 
curdle  my  marrow.  It  was  the  look  that  left  women 
merely  flesh,  live  stock  to  be  duly  appraised  by  the 
buyer.  And  it  made  me  feel  that  I  had  hives  and 
nettle-rash  and  scarletina  all  at  once. 

"You're  too  much  of  a  queen  to  fade  out  of  this 
busy  bean  of  mine  in  one  short  summer,"  he  calmly 
announced. 

He  was  bald  and  his  eyes  protruded.  Yet  in  the 
strong  side-light  from  the  office  window,  I  noticed, 
those  eyes  were  the  softest  of  seal-brown.  I  hated 
to  meet  their  glance,  however,  for  they  made  me 
"think  of  a  sleepy  diamond-back  rattle-snake  curled 
up  behind  zoo  glass.  I  stared  up  at  the  portrait  of 
Rose  Elton  in  the  old-fashioned  fleshlings  of  the 
old-fashioned  merry-merry.  I  stared  at  her  billowy 
lines  and  remembered  that  she  had  at  some  time 
"fleshed  up"  to  their  standard.  I  stared  at  a  photo- 


18         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

graph  of  Flynn  and  Rice,  and  at  eight  pictures  of 
a  male  star  sprawling  over  eight  different  pieces  of 
furniture,  and  at  five  more  of  a  matinee  idol  leaning 
against  mantels.  Then  I  got  courage  to  look  back  at 
the  brown-velvet  eyes,  which  seemed  to  be  enjoying 
my  discomfiture. 

"Can  you  give  me — give  me  work?"  I  finally 
squeaked  out,  like  a  field-mouse  cowed  by  a  black- 
snake. 

"Sure,"  said  the  man  in  the  eternal  office  swivel 
chair.  His  skin  was  sallow,  and  he  looked  as  though 
he  had  tobacco-heart.  I  was  afraid  of  him,  not 
merely  because  he  was  so  sure  of  himself,  but  be- 
cause he  seemed  so  sure  of  me. 

"How  soon  could  you  give  it  to  me?"  I  managed 
to  ask. 

He  seemed  to  be  thinking  this  over. 

"What's  the  matter  with  our  getting  somewhere 
quiet,  where  we  can  talk  things  over — Carlton  Ter- 
race for  dinner,  eh,  and  then  a  run  out  to  Oyster 
Eddie's?" 

It  was  about  time,  instinct  told  me,  to  buckle  on 
the  armor-plate. 

"What's  the  matter  with  getting  down  to  business 
right  here  in  this  office?"  I  inquired. 

He  was  laughing  as  he  got  up  from  his  swivel 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          19 

chair.  And  at  the  same  moment  that  he  got  up  from 
his  chair  I  got  up  from  mine.  It  brought  the  scene 
in  Big  Ben's  office  back  to  me,  in  a  sudden  sickening 
flash.  Only,  this  time,  it  didn't  seem  to  terrify  me. 
It  was  more  the  feeling  you  get  from  a  Coney  Island 
steamer-deck  when  it  swings  around  into  open 
water,  and  begins  to  rise  and  fall,  and  make  you 
wish  you'd  been  a  little  more  careful  about  what 
you'd  eaten. 

"Why're  you  getting  so  up-stage  about  all  this?" 
he  jocularly  inquired,  as  he  came  closer  to  me. 

"Can  you  give  me  work?"  I  demanded,  as  I 
rounded  the  desk,  for  the  Big  War  I'd  been  through 
had  taught  me  it  was  always  best  to  have  a  buffer 
state  between  belligerents. 

"Do  you  want  it  bad?"  he  asked,  still  smiling. 

"I've  got  to  have  it,"  I  confessed. 

"You've  got  to,"  he  repeated. 

"I've  got  to,"  I  told  him. 

"Then,  honey-child,  we're  sure  going  to  come  tq 
terms,"  he  said,  as  he  rocked  on  his  heels  and  once 
more  eyed  me  up  and  down.  I  knew,  then,  that  the 
call  was  going  in  for  a  quick  curtain.  Yet  even  as 
I  knew  it  I  kept  dumbly  asking  why  lightning  should 
strike  twice  in  the  same  place.  It  didn't  seem  fair; 
it  didn't  even  seem  reasonable.  But  it's  the  first 


20         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

flare  that  does  the  charcoal-act.  You  can't  look  for 
a  big  fire  on  the  encore  play.  That's  the  way,  I  sup- 
pose, old  Mother  Nature  saves  us  from  madness. 

That  man  seemed  suddenly  a  thousand  miles 
away  from  me  as  I  looked  at  him.  The  cigar  smoke 
made  me  a  little  dizzy.  I  think  I  must  have  gone 
rather  white,  all  of  a  sudden. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  anyway?"  he  asked 
in  genuine  alarm. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me?"  I  heard  myself 
repeating,  and  my  own  voice  sounded  like  a  long- 
distance wire  on  a  wet  night.  "I'll  tell  you  what's 
the  matter  with  me.  It  seems  like  a  funny  ailment, 
but  d'you  know,  I'm  terribly  tired  of  dogs!" 

"Tired  of  dogs?"  he  echoed,  staring  at  me  with 
his  pop-eyes  wider  open  than  ever.  He  had  dis- 
covered, apparently,  that  he  was  face  to  face  with 
a  crazy  woman,  and  not  even  a  policeman  in  sight. 

"Yes,"  I  calmly  explained  to  him.  "I  came  up 
into  this  office  looking  for  a  man.  An  hour  ago  I 
was  in  another  office  looking  for  a  man." 

"A  man?"  he  echoed. 

"Yes.  And  both  times,  instead  of  finding  one,  I 
found  a  yellow  hound!" 

That  was  my  exit  speech,  and  having  delivered 
it,  I  took  my  departure.  I  wasn't  excited  this  time ; 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          21 

I  was  merely  nauseated.  I  wanted  to  get  out  into 
the  open  air.  And  I  was  glad  to  see  that  the  elevator 
cage  stood  there  waiting  for  me.  And  I  was  also 
glad  that  there  was  no  one  in  it  except  a  weasel- 
faced  little  runt  of  an  old  man  in  rusty  black,  for 
cool  as  I  had  kept  myself  in  that  smoky  office,  I 
found  a  foolish  gush  of  tears  streaking  the  talcum 
off  my  cheeks  as  I  made  my  way  out  to  the  street. 
And  I  never  did  care  to  do  my  crying  before  strang- 
ers. 

I  walked  up  Broadway  once  more,  with  no  sense 
of  time  or  place  or  direction.  I  only  knew  that  I 
was  glad  to  mix  with  the  sidewalk  crowds,  the  same 
as  a  slum  boy  with  prickly-heat  must  be  glad  to  take 
a  header  off  an  East  Side  wharf-end.  I  had  been 
hurt,  and  hurt  without  understanding  why.  It  be- 
wildered me.  I  wanted  to  be  alone,  to  think  things 
out.  And  like  any  other  animal  on  two  legs  or  four, 
when  it  gets  hurt,  I  found  myself  swayed  by  an  in- 
stinct to  make  for  the  tall  timber,  to  go  in  hiding. 
^Without  being  quite  conscious  of  it  I  directed  my 
steps  toward  Central  Park.  There  I  wandered  on 
until  I  found  a  leafy  solitude  and  a  bench  which  a 
gray  squirrel  vacated  as  I  took  possession.  And  I 
sat  back  on  that  bench,  deep  in  thought,  and  let  my 
battered  spirit  lick  its  wounds. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

WHEN  a  woman  housecleans  her  heart  she 
usually  goes  clear  to  the  attic.  As  I  sat  on 
that  green-slatted  park  bench,  accordingly,  I  did  a 
heap  of  overhauling  in  the  musty  corners  of  mem- 
ory. Something  was  wrong,  and  I  wanted  to  find 
out  where.  So  I  took  up  my  whole  past  life,  and 
sat  there  turning  it  round  and  round,  like  a  park 
squirrel  with  a  peanut.  Then  I  took  it  up  in  a  more 
comprehensive  way,  as  though  it  were  a  movie-film, 
and  let  it  unreel,  year  by  tangled  year.  My  only 
trouble  was  in  finding  a  beginning,  for  things  in  this 
world  don't  seem  to  have  beginnings,  but  just  flow 
into  one  another  and  shift  and  change  and  pass 
while  life  goes  stumbling  on  and  those  little  midgets 
called  men  and  women  crisscross  one  another's  trails 
and  wonder  why  they're  so  much  more  unhappy 
than  they  intended  to  be. 

But  on  that  park  bench,  as  at  every  other  time  I 
got  thinking  about  the  past,  I  found  myself  marking 
the  first  mile-stone  by  beginning  with  Bud  Griswold, 

22 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          23 

poor  old  "Carnation  Bud"  who  always  wore  a  pink 
in  his  button-hole,  on  parade,  and  prided  himself 
on  being  as  neat  a  dresser  as  Robert  Hilliard  him- 
self. 

I  can  see  now  that  they  were  all  cheap  and  tawdry 
and  pathetic,  those  foolish  old  creeds  and  vanities 
of  Bud's.  But  there  was  a  time  when  they  stood 
for  nothing  but  splendor  to  me,  just  as  there's  an 
earlier  time  when  a  crimson  Noah's  Ark  can  mean 
grandeur  and  a  string  of  coral  can  spell  wealth.  For 
Bud,  that  afternoon  on  Sixth  Avenue  when  he 
stepped  into  my  life,  stood  for  everything  that  was 
princely  and  resplendent.  Myrtle  Menchen,  who'd 
been  exploring  that  third-rate  department  store  with 
me,  so  weakened  before  a  kolinsky  pillow-muff  that 
she  calmly  walked  away  from  the  fur-counter  with 
the  muff  in  her  hand.  But  Myrtle,  I  found  out 
later,,  had  overlooked  the  minor  detail  of  paying  for 
it.  When  she  got  to  the  swing-doors  and  saw  the 
store  "flyman"  on  her  trail,  she  said  "Hold  this, 
Baddie,  till  I  button  me  coat !"  In  other  words,  she 
unloaded  on  me  and  discreetly  melted  away.  And 
there  I  stood,  with  that  stolen  muff  in  my  hand  and 
that  store  flyman  with  his  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
when  Carnation  Bud  came  pushing  through  the 
crowd. 


24         THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

"You  can't  pinch  that  girl,"  he  said  with  all  the 
authority  of  a  precinct  captain. 

"I've  got  her  with  the  goods  on — and  you  can  do 
your  talking  with  the  cop  that's  coming  across  the 
street!"  announced  that  sheep-nosed  sleuth. 

Bud  talked  with  the  cop  that  came  across  the 
street.  He  talked  low  and  long,  and  called  over 
the  flyman  himself,  and  continued  that  talk  inside 
the  store.  Then  he  pulled  out  a  roll  of  bills  the  size 
of  a  baby's  arm,  paid  for  the  muff,  and  handed  it 
over  to  me  with  a  bow  that  made  me  think  of  John 
Barrymore  in  the  movies.  Then  he  led  me  out  and 
signaled  for  a  taxi. 

"I  s'pose  you  want  to  go  home?"  he  said,  as  we 
swung  off  down  the  crowded  avenue. 

"I  didn't  steal  that  muff,"  was  all  the  answer  I 
gave  to  that  question  of  his. 

"Of  course  you  didn't,"  he  said,  as  solemn  as  a 
judge.  But  I  knew  he  didn't  believe  me. 

"Myrtle  Menchen  stole  that  muff,"  I  persisted, 
"and  handed  it  on  to  me  to  save  her  own  neck." 

"Don't  you  want  to  get  back  to  your  folks?"  Bud 
gently  inquired. 

I  told  him  I  had  no  folks. 

"Well,  back  to  your  home?" 

"My  home's  been  in  a  Greenwich  Village  room- 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          25 

ing  house  with  Myrtle.  But  from  this  day  out  I 
live  with  no  girl  like  that."  And  I  insisted  on  re- 
counting the  entire  affair  of  the  muff  once  more. 

"Then  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  that 
gallant  prince  who  smelt  of  Florida  water — but  in 
those  days  it  seemed  a  fit  and  finishing  aura  for  such 
a  golden  hero. 

"I  don't  know,"  was  my  listless  response.  Then 
Bud,  in  his  lordly  and  masterful  way,  promptly 
took  things  in  his  own  hands.  He  needed  a  good 
sharp  girl  in  his  work,  which  was  that  of  a  lock- 
inspector,  and  took  him  to  all  the  biggest  cities  in 
America.  And  I  in  my  innocence  didn't  understand 
what  Bud's  laugh  stood  for.  So  I  agreed  to  swing 
in  with  him,  and  he  promised  that  the  job  could 
end  at  any  minute  that  he  didn't  treat  me  white. 

Bud  treated  me  white — and  in  going  back  to  those 
old  days,  I  found  I  couldn't  keep  from  phrasing 
things  in  the  language  of  that  lower  world.  When 
you  talk  about  city  wild-life,  you've  got  to  use  city 
wild-life  words.  Bud  treated  me  white,  with  the 
one  exception  of  not  explaining,  from  the  first,  just 
what  he  had  meant  by  inspector  of  locks.  For  when 
Bud  inspected  a  lock  it  was  usually  done  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  skeleton-key. 

I  was  only  a  flapper,  in  those  days,  and  there  was 


26         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

no  woman  about  to  whom  I  could  go  for  advice.  I 
remember  the  day,  on  the  Monday  after  he'd  sent 
me  ahead  of  him  to  Philadelphia,  when  I  saw  him 
filing  a  key-blank  and  he  confessed  that  he  was 
really  a  house-man.  I  was  so  green  then  that  I 
didn't  even  know  what  the  word  meant.  He  had  to 
go  on  and  explain  that  he  was  really  a  supper-worker, 
and  a  supper-worker,  I  duly  came  to  understand, 
was  the  underworld  phrase  for  a  dress-suit  burglar. 

It  took  my  breath  away — and  I  think  my  common 
sense  must  have  gone  with  it.  But  the  strange  city 
intimidated  me.  I  felt  friendless  and  helpless  and 
alone,  in  that  great  town  of  unknown  streets  and 
unknown  faces.  And  when  Bud  left  me  to  think 
it  out  and  come  to  some  sort  of  decision,  I  was  fool- 
ish enough  to  feel  relieved  when  I  heard  his  step  in 
the  hall.  And  that  decided  me.  I  became  a 
chicken-stall  for  a  confidence  man  and  second-story 
worker. 

The  thing  that  most  deluded  me,  I  think,  was 
Bud's  lopsided  decency.  For  outside  of  his  work 
he  was  the  cleanest-minded  man  I  had  ever  met.  He 
had  been  true  blue  in  his  promise  about  being  white 
to  me,  and  I  didn't  want  to  add  to  that  color-scheme 
by  showing  a  yellow  streak.  So  I  was  weak  enough 
to  let  him  surmise  that  I  was  going  to  stick.  I'm 


THE    HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE          27 

not  sure  now  whether  I  intended  to  or  not.  If  the 
chance  had  come  I'm  afraid  I  might  have  bolted. 
But  the  chance  never  came.  There  was  one  condi- 
tion, of  course,  which  he  very  well  knew  I'd  always 
insist  upon.  And  he  was  wise  enough  to  respect 
that.  He  kept  me  as  guarded  from  the  uglier  side 
of  life,  in  fact,  as  though  I'd  been  his  own  daughter. 
And  my  sliding  over  into  that  newer  world  came  so 
gradually,  like  a  vestibuled  Limited  sliding  out  of 
the  yards  into  the  open,  that  I  was  under  way,  full 
tilt  before  I  quite  realized  what  was  happening. 
Then  the  sheer  movement  of  the  thing,  the  activity 
of  it,  the  excitement  of  it,  got  into  my  blood,  and 
the  need  of  Bud  himself  got  fixed  in  my  mind. 

I  learned  to  look  at  life  as  he  did.  I  dropped  into 
the  trick  of  talking  as  he  did.  I  got  so  I  could 
face  a  tight  fade  without  a  quaver,  and  do  my  gay- 
cat  part  in  sloughing  our  make  as  easily  as  rolling 
off  a  log.  And  all  the  while  it  seemed  a  sort  of 
game,  which  could  of  course  be  dropped  when  the 
league  disbanded  and  the  autumn  leaves  blew 
through  the  bleachers.  It  never  dawned  on  me  then 
that  a  woman  must  be  only  what  she  has  been,  that 
every  year  of  her  past  is  the  link  of  a  chain  which 
drags  forever  at  her  heels.  But,  as  I've  already 
said.  I  was  only  a  flapper  in  those  days. 


28         THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

We  worked  the  Eastern  Coast  that  first  winter, 
all  the  big  cities  excepting  New  York.  The  bulls 
were  out  for  Bud  there,  and  he  usually  fought  clear 
of  the  Big  Burg — and  the  day  came  when  I  most 
devoutly  thanked  God  for  that,  since  it  left  me 
with  a  clear  record  on  Manhattan  Island  and  al- 
lowed me  later  on  to  start  over  again,  when  the 
chance  came.  Bud  flossed  me  out  with  a  Bonwit- 
Teller  hand-me-down  and  I  joined  him  at  Albany. 
Then  we  beat  it  to  Boston  and  worked  the  Bean- 
Town  suburbs  harnessed  for  a  course  dinner.  Some- 
times I'd  brace  the  bell,  and  sometimes  Bud  would. 
When  no  one  answered  the  ring  Bud  would  slip  in 
through  a  side  window  and  make  his  clean-up.  I'd 
play  gay-cat  while  he  dug  for  glass  and  junk.  Some- 
times I'd  even  have  to  do  the  dummy-chucker  act 
or  spill  a  faint,  to  give  him  a  chance  for  his  get- 
away. 

How  the  old  words  and  the  old  way  of  looking 
up  things  came  back,  as  I  went  over  those  days 
again !  It  seemed  the  only  way  to  describe  the  tricks 
of  the  old  trade.  For  instance,  when  an  alarm  went 
up  and  Bud  seemed  to  be  in  for  a  rumble,  I'd  swoon. 
I'd  wait  until  the  crowd  got  big  enough  and  then  I'd 
flop  right  down,  happy-hems  and  all.  I  even  got 
the  trick  of  making  myself  go  white,  when  I  wanted 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE          29 

to.  That  was  why  my  stall  could  nearly  always 
work,  and  the  hen-flock  would  always  hang  around 
until  I  came  to,  ,%nd  start  me  off  in  a  taxi  or  a  limou- 
sine to  some  bloomer  address  in  the  outskirts.  Bud, 
in  the  meantime,  would  hop  the  fence  for  a  fade- 
away. 

He  specialized  on  glass  or  ice,  which  same  means 
simply  diamonds,  and  he  had  a  pet  theory  that  the 
only  kind  of  thieving  that  could  ever  pay  in  the  long 
run  was  diamond  stealing.  A  diamond,  he  said,  was 
always  as  good  as  money.  It  never  depreciated.  It 
could  always  be  pried  out  of  its  setting  and  be  split 
or  re-cut  and  could  never  be  traced.  And  it  served 
women  right,  he  claimed,  to  lose  their  glass,  for  the 
parading  of  such  stones  was  not  only  a  vanity  but 
an  incitement  to  the  poor.  Bud  even  acknowledged 
that  when  he'd  got  me  properly  trained  in  the  busi- 
ness the  two  of  us  could  start  out  as  the  biggest 
glass  lifters  in  the  world.  He  had  mapped  out 
some  visionary  plan  of  campaign,  to  take  us  right 
through  Europe.  We  were  to  go  only  after  the  best 
stones  in  the  land.  By  that  time  we'd  have  a  deep 
heel,  which  means  plenty  of  ready  cash,  so  that  we 
could  feed  our  fence  until  the  blow-over  and  unload 
in  the  Amsterdam  markets  like  a  regular  dealer. 

One  point  that  Bud  was  especially  careful  about 


30         THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

was  always  to  keep  me  within  the  law.  He  never 
so  much  as  asked  me  to  steal  a  postage-stamp.  He 
said  he  didn't  want  a  blot  against  me,  and  he  said 
it  was  for  business  purposes.  Whether  or  not  that 
was  the  truth  I  could  never  quite  tell.  For  Bud 
guarded  me  in  ways  that  weren't  always  necessary. 
He  kept  me  away  from  what  he  called  the  "skirts" 
and  "ribs"  of  his  profession.  He  seemed  to  have 
known  a  good  many  of  these  women,  in  his  time. 
Sometimes  I  used  to  wonder  what  his  relations  with 
them  had  been.  And  sometimes,  too,  I  used  to  be 
jealous  of  them.  At  first  it  was  of  Third- Arm 
Annie,  who  had  beryl-green  eyes  and  a  thatch  of  red 
bangs  that  made  her  look  out  of  place  off  Fourteenth 
Street.  But  Bud  told  me  that  she  was  one  of  the 
cleverest  "dips"  and  pickpockets  in  America,  and 
explained  how  she'd  got  her  name  working  as  a 
shop-lifter,  with  a  dummy  third  arm  which  she 
rested  on  a  counter  or  show-case  while  her  own  un- 
noticed right  hand  was  busy  raking  the  chattels 
into  her  split-skirt  pocket. 

But  later  on  it  was  another  woman  who  most 
disturbed  me,  for  I  couldn't  help  feeling  that  this 
woman  had  her  ropes  laid  for  the  rounding  up  of 
my  Bud.  Her  name  was  Cookson,  but  in  her  own 
circle  she  was  always  known  as  Copperhead  Kate. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          31 

She  was  well  named,  all  right.  For  she  wore  her 
hair  low  over  her  ears,  and  this  hair  was  of  thick 
copper,  standing  out  on  each  side  of  her  head  in 
two  rounded  lobes.  Her  nose  was  rather  short  and 
blunt,  and  these  two  lobes  seemed  to  add  to  the  re- 
ceding line  of  her  flattened  profile.  So  when  you 
saw  her  at  certain  angles  she  kind  of  brought  your 
heart  up  into  your  mouth,  for  her  head  was  as  much 
like  the  head  of  a  copperhead  snake  as  any  human 
cranium  could  be.  This  snaky  feeling  was  carried 
out  still  further  in  her  movements  themselves,  for 
they  were  languid  and  lazy  and  graceful,  as  a  rule. 
There  was  a  scaly  sort  of  shimmer  about  her,  too, 
a  smoothness  and  quietness  which  seemed  to  mark 
her  down  as  belonging  more  to  the  shadows  than 
the  open  street. 

When  her  trail  would  cross  with  Bud's1  I'd  have 
to  edge  away  and  fade  into  the  background,  for  it 
was  Bud's  play,  of  course,  always  to  deny  that  I  was 
chicken-stalling  for  him.  He  wouldn't  even  recog*- 
-nize  me  in  public,  though  we  had  a  sign-language 
that  would  have  made  any  Sicilian  black-hander 
green-eyed  with  envy.  I'd  have  to  sit  back  and  see 
Copperhead  Kate  dragging  out  her  heart-to-heart 
talk  with  my  Bud,  and  even  then  I  was  in  some 
wordless  way  afraid  of  her.  I  hated  that  touch  of 


32          THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

stealth  about  her  movements,  that  air  of  lazy  self- 
concernment,  that  pose  of  gliding  indifference  to  all 
the  world  about  her.  Bud  told  me  that  she  was  an 
uncommonly  clever  woman,  as  much  cleverer  than 
Third-Arm  Annie,  for  instance,  as  Annie  her- 
self was  cleverer  than  the  every-day  shop-lifter. 
But  he  stubbornly  denied  that  he  had  ever  worked 
with  her,  and  claimed  that  for  several  years  she'd 
been  the  gun-moll  of  a  peterman  called  Whispering 
Wat,  who'd  a  bullet-wound  in  his  throat  that  rather 
interfered  with  his  talking. 

Bud  nursed  an  open  contempt  for  yeggs  and 
petermen  and  lush-dips  and  that  brand  of  crooks, 
and  it  was  only  when  funds  ran  low  that  he  turned 
back  to  actual  porch-climbing.  He  always  consid- 
ered that  line  of  work  as  a  mere  apprenticeship. 
He  had  his  ambitions,  had  Bud,  and  sometimes  he 
used  to  talk  of  how  he'd  handle  the  higher  lines  of 
work,  once  he  was  ready  for  the  job.  But  he  was 
never  quite  sure  what  this  was  to  be.  At  one  time 
he'd  ramble  on  about  switching  back  into  the  wire- 
tapping game,  explaining  that  it  was  a  game  that 
never  grew  old  and  always  had  a  rich  sucker-list 
waiting  for  easy  money.  Then  at  other  times  he'd 
talk  about  the  high-life  sloughing,  and  say  he  want- 
ed the  two  of  us  to  get  so  we  could  saunter  into 


THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE         33 

Tiffany's  or  the  Newport  Casino  or  Bailey's  Beach 
and  spot  the  best  stones  in  America  without  letting 
the  Four  Hundred  know  we  weren't  one  of  them. 
After  talks  like  this  Bud  would  plant  me  in  the  high- 
est-priced hotels,  to  study  the  women  there  at  close 
range,  and  catch  the  trick  of  talking  as  they  did, 
and  wearing  my  clothes  as  they  seemed  to  wear 
theirs. 

I  was  quick  enough  at  doing  this,  though  it  always 
disturbed  me  in  a  way  I  can't  quite  explain.  But  I 
knew,  all  the  time,  that  my  splendor  was  only  a 
flash  in  the  pan.  I  knew  I  was  only  cheap  plate,  an 
impostor.  And  all  the  while,  deep  down  in  my  soul, 
I  had  that  never-ending  ache  to  be  the  real  thing. 

There  were  times,  too,  when  Bud  himself  seemed 
to  fail  in  what  he  pretended  to  be.  He  used  to 
seem  almost  pathetic  to  me,  on  my  off  days,  for  I 
felt  then  that  his  clothes  were  flashier  than  they 
ought  to  be,  that  his  Lord-Chesterfield  manners 
weren't  the  manners  of  the  other  men  in  those  softly 
carpeted  hotels,  that  even  his  affectation  of  a 
Harvard  accent  was  actory  and  artificial.  This 
never  really  came  home  to  me  until  I  met  another 
man.  And  that  man  was  my  Hero-Man. 

Somewhere  in  her  life,  I  think,  every  woman 
must  have  a  Hero-Man,  whether  he's  the  new  min- 


34         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

ister  or  the  kingly  floor-walker  in  a  close-fitting 
Prince-Albert  or  a  movie  actor  with  his  eyes  beaded 
or  some  melancholy-eyed  neighbor  who  is  supposed 
to  be  misunderstood  by  his  wife.  But  he  must  not 
be  too  near,  or  too  accessible,  otherwise  his  halo  is 
likely  to  wither  and  his  glory  to  fade  into  the  light 
of  common  day. 

It  had  been  that  way,  I'm  afraid,  with  Bud,  al- 
though I  had  never  been  able  to  admit  it.  For  Bud 
no  longer  seemed  the  resplendent  being,  smelling 
of  Florida  water,  that  he  was  that  morning  on  Sixth 
Avenue  when  Myrtle  Menchen  stole  the  kolinsky 
muff.  And  my  new  Hero-Man  was  quite  different 
from  the  old  one,  though  there  was  a  coincidence 
or  two  in  the  way  they  both  appeared  over  the 
horizon. 

Bud  was  hanging  out  at  the  Hotel  Breslau,  down 
at  Long  Beach,  and  was  putting  through  a  coup  for 
milking  the  bathing-beach  lockers  during  the  swim- 
ming-hour. The  Breslau  double  locker  room  is 
right  under  the  hotel  and  reached  from  the  shore 
by  passing  under  the  board-walk  and  in  through  a 
tunnel.  On  one  side  is  the  men's  locker  room,  and 
on  the  other  is  the  women's,  with  a  slim  in  charge 
of  one  and  a  flapper  in  charge  of  the  other.  The 
lockers,  of  course,  were  for  the  use  of  the  hotel 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          35 

guests,  who  undressed  there  before  piking  out  for 
the  beach  in  their  bathing-suits. 

Bud  decided  there  was  good  booty  in  those  lock- 
ers every  afternoon,  so  he  planned  to  have  me  call 
the  locker-girl  away  for  as  long  as  I  could  hold  her. 
Then  he'd  work  his  bone-keys  and  make  his 
clean-up.  It  wasn't  work  he  liked,  but  a  turn  of 
hard  luck  had  left  the  coin-coffer  at  low  ebb,  and 
he  had  to  take  the  first  decent  chance  that  came 
along. 

A  plump  actor's  wife  came  puddling  in,  in  a  wet 
bathing-suit,  and  caught  Bud  in  her  locker.  Bud 
apologized  and  explained  that  his  wife  had  sent  him 
in  from  the  beach  for  her  rings,  and  he  was  awfully 
sorry  he'd  blundered  into  the  wrong  cubby-hole. 
Then  he  had  the  nerve  to  open  up  the  second  next 
locker,  still  under  that  plump  dowager's  eye,  unpin 
an  emerald  pendant  that  was  fastened  to  a  waist 
hanging  there,  relock  the  door,  and  start  smilingly 
back  for  the  beach. 

I  didn't  dream  anything  was  wrong,  at  the  time, 
until  the  plump  person  began  to  scream  at  the  top 
of  her  lungs  that  she'd  been  robbed.  Even  then  I 
didn't  worry.  I  merely  sauntered  on  through  the 
tunnel  to  the  beach,  where  I  spotted  Bud  losing  him- 
self in  the  crowd.  But  the  busty  lady  in  the  wet 


36         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

bathing-suit  had  also  spotted  him.  I  saw  her  com- 
ing, like  a  ball  down  the  bowling-ally.  I  managed 
to  brush  by  Bud  just  in  time  to  have  him  pass  me  his 
loot,  wrapped  up  tight  in  a  pocket  handkerchief. 
Then  I  ambled  on,  with  the  package  stowed  inside 
my  sleazy  blouse-neck  as  I  languidly  pushed  in  my 
hairpins.  No  one,  apparently,  was  any  the  wiser. 
But  that  was  where  I  missed  my  one  good  guess. 

I  sank  down  beside  a  cool-eyed  young  man  in 
gray  flannels.  He  was  smiling  at  the  scene  with  a 
detached  sort  of  contentment.  He  even  smiled  at 
me.  Bud,  by  this  time,  had  his  hat  in  his  hand  and 
his  Lord  Chesterfield  heels  together.  He  was  bow- 
ing and  explaining  and  urbanely  requesting  that  he 
be  searched,  if  need  be,  to  put  the  poor  woman's 
mind  at  rest.  But  I  didn't  like  the  looks  of  things. 

"What  are  they  doing  to  that  poor  man?"  I 
inquired  of  the  cool-eyed  youth  beside  me.  He 
wasn't  so  young,  I  noticed,  as  I  first  thought  him. 

"I  rather  fancy  they're  going  to  have  the  house- 
detective  search  him,"  was  my  companion's  quiet 
reply.  He  scarcely  looked  at  me. 

"Isn't  that  ridiculous?"  I  ventured.  The  whole 
thing,  you  see,  somewhat  bored  me. 

"It's  more  than  ridiculous — it's  useless,"  said  the 
man  at  my  side. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          37 

I  looked  at  him  out  of  the  corner  of  a  very 
guarded  eye. 

"Why?"  I  lazily  inquired.  But  the  search,  I 
noticed,  was  already  under  way,  and  a  triumphant 
if  slightly  indignant  Bud  Griswold  was  enduring  it 
without  any  loss  of  standing. 

"Because  his  confederate  now  has  his  haul  safely 
tucked  away  under  her  shirt-waist,"  answered  the 
man  with  the  creme-de-menthe  smile. 

I  sat  there  blinking  at  the  blue  Atlantic  while  a 
little  runway  of  chills  went  arrowing  up  and  down 
my  spine.  For  this  quiet-eyed  stranger  knew  that 
I  had  that  stolen  jewelry  on  me,  and  he  had  just 
taken  the  trouble  to  let  me  know  that  he  knew.  In 
one  panicky  moment  I  saw  myself  blue-birded  up 
to  headquarters,  mugged  and  measured,  and  my 
bright  young  life  turning  turtle  into  the  Tombs. 

But  I  didn't  intend  to  give  up  the  ship,  without 
a  last  gasp  or  two. 

"Do  you  think  she  can  escape?"  I  quietly 
inquired. 

He  thought  this  over. 

"That  all  depends  on  how  intelligent  she  is,"  was 
his  final  response. 

"I  hope  she  does,"  I  sighed.  "For  I  think  we  all 
like  to  see  a  woman  get  a  righting  chance !" 


38         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

His  smile  broadened.  Then  he  grew  quite  seri- 
ous again. 

"When  the  engagement  has  every  aspect  of  fair- 
ness," he  ventured.  And  that  made  me  rather  sit 
up  again.  He  was  intimating,  of  course,  that  sneak- 
thieving  wasn't  exactly  the  noblest  of  pastimes. 

"I  wonder  what  she  really  ought  to  do  ?"  I  imper- 
sonally inquired. 

For  the  second  time  he  found  it  necessary  to  give 
my  question  considerable  thought. 

"I  should  think  the  easiest  solution  of  the  situa- 
tion would  be  for  her  to  drop  the  little  parcel  intact 
into  the  hotel  mail-box,"  he  told  me.  "In  that  way 
the  unfortunate  lady  will  be  relieved  of  all  possible 
embarrassment  and  the  owners  of  the  missing — er — 
ornaments  will  undoubtedly  come  into  possession 
of  them  again !" 

I  was  still  staring  out  at  the  blue  Atlantic. 

"I  believe  that  is  exactly  what  the  lady  intends 
to  do,"  I  quietly  announced. 

"When?"  he  inquired. 

I  did  not  answer  him  at  once,  for  Bud,  who  was 
hovering  about  the  background,  was  telling  me  by 
sign-talk  to  stick  to  the  stranger  and  follow  on  to 
the  city  when  the  way  was  clear. 

"When?"  demanded  my  new  friend. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          39 

"Right  away,"  I  acknowledged.  For  I  had  thrown 
back  to  Bud  the  high-sign  that  I  was  wise  to  his 
tip. 

The  man  at  my  side  turned  and  studied  me,  ap- 
parently for  the  first  time. 

"I'm  sorry,  you  know,"  he  began.  "But  I  rather 
thirik  it  would  make  it  safer  if  you'd  dine  with  me 
here  to-night." 

"I  haven't  been  oppressed  by  any  sense  of  impend- 
ing danger,"  I  told  him,  with  a  forced  laugh. 

"Then  perhaps  it  escaped  your  attention  that  the 
locker-girl  has  just  pointed  you  out  to  the  hotel 
detective?" 

"That  is  interesting,"  I  said,  but  I  wasn't  one  half 
as  comfortable  as  I  pretended  to  be. 

"It  is  so  interesting  that  I  think  it  will  be  advisable 
for  us  to  return  to  the  hotel  by  way  of  the  board- 
walk," he  explained,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet.  "And 
in  case  there  is  any  necessity  for  using  it,  remember, 
my  name  is  Wendy  Washburn." 

He  said  it  as  though  he  nursed  the  comfortable 
oelief  that  there  was  considerable  weight  in  that 
rather  silly-sounding  name. 

"And  mine  is  Baddie  Pretlow,"  I  told  him,  as  I 
rose  to  my  feet. 

"Baddie,"  he  repeated,  with  a  glint  of  humor. 


40         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"That's  short  for  Barbara,  you  know,"  I 
explained,  as  we  began  to  move  forward. 

"There  positively  ought  to  be  a  society  for  the 
prenatal  suppression  of  impossible  names,"  he 
declared,  as  we  mounted  to  the  board-walk. 
"Imagine  an  able-bodied  man  being-  sent  out  into  the 
world  with  such  a  name  as  'Wendy.'  And  a  aice- 
looking  girl  being  compelled  to  answer  to  the  sou- 
briquet of  'Baddie !'  " 

"I  suspect  the  latter  may  fit  a  little  nearer  than 
you  think,"  I  told  him. 

He  stopped  and  stared  at  me,  long  and  earnestly. 
Under  that  steady  look,  in  fact,  I  could  feel  my  color 
deepen. 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  said  with  quiet  decision, 
"I  think  you  are  entirely  wrong  in  that  intimation." 

"Thank  you !"  was  my  stammered  and  altogether 
stupid  reply  to  his  absurd  declaration  of  faith.  By 
this  time  we  were  back  at  the  hotel  and  I  was  direct- 
ing my  course  so  as  to  lead  us  to  the  lobster-colored 
mail-box.  I  turned  away  from  him  and  stooped  in 
front  of  it. 

"Will  you  pardon  me  a  moment,"  I  murmured, 
"for  I've  a  letter  I'd  like  to  mail  here !" 

He  did  not  look,  but  I'm  sure  he  heard  the  chink 
of  metal  as  the  little  parcel  fell  into  trie  lobster- 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE          41 

colored  box.  And  I  took  a  deep  breath  as  I  turned 
around  to  where  he  was  waiting  for  me. 

"It  may  seem  rather  an  absurd  hour  to  dine,  but 
the  sooner  we  dig  ourselves  in,  so  to  speak,  the 
safer  we  may  be  for  any  possible  attack,"  my  Hero- 
Man  suggested.  And  I  hadn't  eaten  my  second 
oyster  before  I  realized  the  wisdom  of  that  strategy. 

It  was  not  the  house-detective,  however,  but  the 
hotel  manager  himself  who  came  to  confer  with 
Wendy  Washburn.  That  conference  took  place  just 
beyond  my  hearing.  It  showed  that  my  Hero-Man, 
whatever  he  may  have  been,  was  at  least  a  good 
actor.  He  neither  lost  his  dignity  nor  over-did  the 
part.  He  neither  expostulated  nor  argued.  He 
merely  announced.  And  he  did  it  so  quietly  that 
that  hotel  manager  tucked  his  last  suspicion  into  its 
four-poster  of  official  politeness  and  apologized  for 
what  must  have  been  a  mistake  of  his  employees. 

"That's  over,  I  imagine,"  my  Hero-Man 
announced,  as  he  rejoined  me,  quite  unruffled.  And 
as  he  sat  across  the  table  from  me  and  went  on  with 
his  dinner,  as  calmly  as  though  we  had  dined 
together  a  thousand  times,  I  did  my  best  to  study 
his  face.  I  wanted  to  understand  him. 

But  that  face  didn't  seem  an  easy  one  to  under- 
stand. At  first  it  struck  me  as  being  cold.  Then  it 


42         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

struck  me  as  the  face  of  one  of  those  oldish-looking 
young  Americans  who  begin  to  worry  over  things 
too  early  in  life  and  get  a  sprinkling  of  gray  over 
the  ears  while  their  eyes  are  still  young.     For  his 
eyes  were  still  young,  young  and  eager,  though  the 
rest  of  his  face  looked  tired  and  his  smile  was  a 
half -cynical  one.     There  was  just  a  touch  of  dis- 
dain about  his  eyebrows,  too,  though  you  forgot 
that  in  the  humor  of  his  smile.     He  made  that 
humor,   I  think,  a  kind  of  armor,  as  though  he 
wanted  to  laugh  at  himself  before  you  got  a  chance 
to  laugh  at  him.    And  he  had  a  funny  little  trick  of 
holding  back  what  he  was  about  to  say,  for  a  second 
or  two,  as  though  he  might  be  giving  his  brain  time 
to  work  before  he  let  his  mental  ponies  trot  out  into 
the  ring  of  talk.    His  lips  would  pucker  up  a  little, 
as  he  did  this,  in  a  way  that  made  you  think  of  a  kid. 
But  that  lean  jaw  and  that  straight  mouth  with  just 
the  tiniest  twist  at  the  end  soon  told  you  he  could 
be  strong  enough,  when  the  strain  came.    He  had  a 
way  of  looking  at  you  critically,  yet  quizzically, 
though  he  made  me  feel  that  he'd  be  honest  before 
he'd  be  kind-hearted.   He  gave  me  the  impression, 
even  then,  that  he  was  expecting  a  great  deal  from 
his  possible  friends,  that  it  might  hurt  him  a  lot  if 
you  didn't  live  up  to  his  expectations,  and  that  in 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          43 

some  way  it  would  always  be  better  to  have  him  on 
your  side  than  against  you. 

"I  disappoint  you,  I  see,"  he  announced,  without 
looking  up,  as  I  completed  what  I  thought  was  a 
secret  survey  of  him. 

"No,"  I  told  him.    "You  puzzle  me." 

"Not  half  so  much,  I  fancy,  as  you  have  been 
puzzling  me,"  was  his  retort.  "And  I've  just  been 
thinking  that  you  ought  to  read  Browning.  He'd 
really  help  you  a  lot !" 

"Who's  Browning?"  I  asked. 

"He's  the  gentleman  who  first  observed  that  it's 
better  being  good  than  bad,  and  that  it's  much  safer 
being  sane  than  mad — bromidic  utterances,  I'll 
allow,  but  then  one  might  claim  that  bromides  are 
bromides  simply  because  they  express  essential 
truths  that  are  so  undisputed  everybody  has  to  keep 
on  saying  'em !" 

"I'll  get  his  works !"  I  solemnly  promised. 

"Please  don't,"  implored  my  Hero-Man.  "Or  I'll 
find  you  my  enemy  for  life.  But  you  don't  get  much 
time  for  reading,  I  take  it?" 

I  confessed  that  I  didn't.  I  even  told  him  that  I 
hated  to  dwaddle,  that  I  had  to  keep  on  the  move, 
that  I  needed  excitement  a-i  much  as  most  women 
needed  tea. 


44         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"Of  course,"  he  admitted,  as  though  he  under- 
stood it  all  from  the  first.  And  without  quite  know- 
ing it  he  led  me  out,  step  by  step,  until  he  had  me 
Bertilloned  and  pigeonholed.  And  the  harder  I 
tried  to  explain  myself,  to  redeem  myself,  the  wider 
his  eyes  became. 

"You  poor  little  muddle-headed  kid!"  he  said  in 
a  tone  that  gave  me  a  funny  feeling  in  the  throat, 
"they  haven't  handed  you  half  a  chance !" 

Then  he  told  me,  in  his  steely  yet  offhanded  way, 
that  he  was  going  to  motor  me  back  to  town. 

It  was  still  easy  for  me  to  recall  the  smell  of  the 
sea,  the  sound  of  waves  plunging  under  the  board- 
walk, the  lights  of  his  high-power  roadster  as  he 
circled  in  to  take  me  aboard.  It  didn't  seem  real. 
It  was  like  a  dream.  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
preach,  on  the  way  in,  but  he  was  silent  during  most 
of  that  run.  I  even  thought  he  was  going  to  say 
something  about  our  meeting  again,  or  ask,  as  Bud's 
friends  would,  where  he'd  be  able  to  find  me  when 
he  had  a  day  off.  But  he  said  no  such  thing.  What 
he  did  say  was  something  quite  different  from  what 
I  had  expected. 

"Under  the  circumstances,  you  know,"  he  quietly 
explained,  after  we  had  crossed  the  bridge,  "it  would 
be  obviously  absurd  for  me  to  give  you  my  home 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          45 

address.  But  if  you  find  yourself  confronted  by  a 
predicament  that — well,  that  seems  in  any  way  des- 
perate, you  might  send  me  a  line  at  the  Aldine  Club. 
I  mean  that  if  you  actually  need  help,  and  I  can 
help  you,  I'll  do  it!" 

I  swallowed  my  disappointment.  I  was  so  hurt, 
in  fact,  without  knowing  just  where  or  how,  that  I 
sat  silent  until  he  dropped  me  at  the  Grand  Central, 
as  I  had  asked  him  to  do.  The  tangle  of  traffic  there 
must  have  taken  all  his  attention,  for  he  merely 
nodded,  and  neither  looked  back  nor  called  out  to  me, 
as  he  rolled  away. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

T  SAT  on  the  park  bench,  thinking  it  all  over.  I 
•i-  sat  there  in  the  paling  light,  with  the  distant  hum 
of  the  city  in  my  ears,  going  over  those  earlier  days, 
scene  by  scene  and  event  by  event. 

A  little  old  man  in  rusty  black  ambled  by  me,  but 
he  had  come  and  gone  before  my  abstracted  eyes 
took  note  of  him.  The  gray  squirrel  ventured  back 
to  his  earlier  playground,  circling  discreetly  about 
the  stranger  who  was  in  too  deep  a  trance  to  remem- 
ber that  it  was  about  time  for  the  handing  out  of  a 
peanut  or  two.  But  I  was  thinking  of  bigger  things 
than  park  squirrels  as  I  sat  there  with  a  five-reeled 
tangle  that  people  call  life  once  more  unrolling 
before  my  eyes.  I  was  busy  recalling  how  that 
meeting  with  the  Hero-Man  changed  me,  and 
changed  even  Bud  Griswold.  For  Bud's  manner 
toward  me,  after  that  strange  evening  at  Long 
Beach,  was  distinctly  a  different  one.  He  was,  I 
could  see,  secretly  and  smolderingly  jealous  of  the 
mysterious  and  cool-eyed  Wendy  Washburn.  He 

46 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE         47 

knew  that  this  stranger  had  opened  my  eyes  to 
things  which  they  had  never  before  bothered  about. 
I  didn't  explain.  I  couldn't  explain.  But  in  some 
vague  way  I  felt  sorry  for  Bud.  He  became  more 
morose,  more  self-contained.  Yet  he  was  never 
openly  unkind,  or  actively  critical.  He  seemed  more 
discontented  with  himself  than  with  me.  A  new 
fever  for  money  seemed  to  possess  him.  This 
prompted  him  to  turn  back  to  the  coarser  grades 
of  work,  to  take  chances  which  earlier  in  the  game 
he  never  seemed  to  care  to  face. 

Yet  in  some  ways  he  tried  to  stay  the  same.  He 
remained  the  same  toward  me,  although  his  temper, 
with  other  people,  was  apt  to  be  uncertain.  It  was 
at  Ormond  Beach,  I  remembered,  that  he  floored  a 
Yacht- Johnny  in  white  ducks  for  making  unseemly 
advances  to  me  on  the  board-walk,  knocked  him  as 
flat  as  a  pan-cake,  and  at  the  same  time  put  the 
kibosh  on  our  hotel  coup  for  that  night,  because  a 
federal  gum-shoe  pushed  in  through  the  crowd  and 
got  a  bead  on  Bud.  He  seemed  to  remember  him. 
So  we  had  to  beat  a  retreat  for  the  orange-groves 
before  two  local  constables  could  understand  why 
that  gum-shoe  was  trying  to  commit  an  assault  on 
such  a  respectable-looking  guest  as  Bud. 

And  in  Brookline,  when  Copperhead  Kate  led 


48         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

Bud  to  one  side  and  tried  to  coax  him  to  hitch  up 
with  a  mail-pouch  thief  called  Pawtucket  Fatty,  he 
shook  his  head  on  the  strong-arm  work.  It  was  the 
same  when  Hot-Weather  Harry,  another  porch- 
climber  who'd  side-stepped  into  yegg-work,  wanted 
Bud  to  join  him  and  work  the  can-opener  on  the 
Middle  West  post-offices.  Bud  came  out  flat  against 
the  offer.  He  later  explained  to  me  that  it  was  rube 
work  and  all  right  for  the  rough-necks,  though  it 
wasn't  until  later  that  I  learned  that  both  Copper- 
head Kate  and  Hot- Weather  Harry  claimed  that  I 
was  the  reason  for  Bud  Griswold  growing  chicken' 
hearted  in  his  old  age. 

If  this  worried  Bud  he  never  opened  his  heart 
about  it  to  me.  He  merely  contended  that  he'd 
rather  be  a  check-kiter,  or  a  stone-getter,  any  day, 
than  a  soup-worker  and  a  box-blower.  For  Bud 
didn't  believe  in  force.  He  made  it  a  practise  not 
even  to  carry  a  gun.  This,  he  pointed  out,  had 
saved  him  from  a  fall,  dozens  of  times.  He  said 
no  properly-trained  supper-worker  had  any  right  to 
tote  a  "gat,"  which  is  the  underworld  word  for  an 
automatic.  He  didn't  even  work  with  a  jimmy, 
when  it  came  to  forcing  a  side  door,  or  getting  a 
back  window  up.  All  he  carried  was  a  specially 
made  cigar-lighter — which  served  him  as  a  flash- 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          49 

light — and  a  cast-steel  stove-lifter  which  could  be 
tossed  into  any  back  yard  on  a  moment's  notice. 
You  couldn't  hold  a  man,  he  used  to  say,  on  an 
exhibit  of  kitchen  utensils,  though  he  worked  a  good 
many  of  his  window  tricks  with  a  stone  point  and  a 
suction-cap  made  from  a  glove-back. 

Copperhead  Kate  dogged  about  after  Bud  a  good 
deal  that  summer,  and  on  a  pretense  that  a  run  of 
hard  luck  had  slimmed  our  heel  we  worked  south 
from  Boston  to  Sleepy-Town  again,  skipping  New 
York  as  usual  and  striking  for  the  high-toned 
colonies  along  the  Eastern  Coast.  I  wasn't  sorry 
to  be  on  the  move,  for  I  was  more  than  ever  afraid 
of  Copperhead  Kate.  And  I  could  see  that  Bud 
himself  was  restless.  He  knew  that  something  had 
started  me  thinking  things  over,  that  I  was  no  longer 
as  placidly  unconcerned  about  life  as  a  lamb  in  a 
meadow,  that  I  was  beginning  to  have  an  inkling 
that  the  whole  arrangement  of  things  was  wrong. 
But  he  worked  steadily,  all  this  time,  and  never  lost 
a  chance  to  turn  the  nut,  as  he  would  express  it. 
And  when  winter  came  on  we  struck  for  Florida 
and  floated  down  through  the  East  Coast  resorts, 
Little  Me  drifting  ahead  as  the  advance  agent  and 
Bud  following  on  as  the  managing  director.  We 
never  put  up  at  the  same  hotel,  of  course,  and  we 


50         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

never  appeared  together  in  public  unless  it  couldn't 
be  helped. 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  was  lonesome,  lone- 
some for  something  which  I  couldn't  name  and 
couldn't  understand.  But  Bud  was  always  talking 
of  the  future,  when  we  came  together,  and  of  the 
deep  heel  we'd  have  when  we  crossed  the  pond.  It 
was  at  Fort  Pierce  that  he  first  asked  me  to  marry 
him,  though  he  did  it  again,  three  days  later,  at  Palm 
Beach.  I  was  able  to  laugh  at  him,  and  accuse  him 
of  getting  mealy.  That  seemed  to  hurt  him.  It  at 
least  put  the  lid  down  on  the  marriage  talk  for  the 
rest  of  the  winter.  But  Bud  was  good  to  me,  as 
good  as  any  man,  whether  he  happened  to  be  a  dia- 
mond thief  or  a  churchwarden,  could  be  to  a  woman. 
He  still  expected  me  to  do  my  spotter  work,  of 
course,  and  do  it  well.  Sometimes  it  wasn't  easy 
to  get  away  with,  but  Bud,  even  from  the  distance, 
watched  me  like  a  hawk  and  never  ventured  a  move 
which  he  thought  would  make  it  harder  for  me. 

I  don't  like  to  say  that  Bud  went  sour  that  winter, 
but  my  refusal  to  marry  him  left  him  so  unsettled 
that  he  did  the  best  sloughing  of  the  season,  some- 
times making  three  stations  in  one  night.  He  even 
jimmied  his  way  into  a  stucco  chateau  full  of  King 
Charles  spaniels,  and,  take  my  word  for  it,  no  ordi- 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          51 

nary  porch-climber  is  ever  anxious  to  face  that  kind 
of  dog-opera.  Then  when  things  shaped  themselves 
so  it  looked  like  a  round-up,  he  commandeered  a 
gasoline  launch  and  we  did  the  Indian  River  by 
moonlight,  with  Bud  dropping  in  on  a  nifty-looking 
house-boat  on  the  way  and  gathering  up  a  pocketful 
of  rings  before  a  trim  little  tender  full  of  fox-trot- 
ters bumped  up  against  one  end  of  that  boat  while 
Bud  himself  slipped  down  over  the  other. 

Then  we  doubled  back  and  ambled  on  to  Havana, 
where  Bud  reported  the  city  to  be  a  gold-mine  for 
work  like  his,  but  where  I  suffered  from  inter- 
mittent chills  and  fever  until  an  American  doctor 
advised  me  to  go  north.  So  Bud  gave  up  his  gold- 
mine and  carried  me  back  to  home  country  by  way 
of  New  Orleans.  Then  we  headed  northward  by 
way  of  St.  Louis  and  Chicago,  for  Bud  had  worked 
out  a  new  coup  or  two,  to  practise  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  Great  Lakes. 

One  of  his  new  plans,  in  which  he  had  great 
faith,  he  intended  to  try  out  at  Detroit,  and  then 
repeat  at  Buffalo,  if  all  went  well.  His  idea  was  to 
plant  me  in  one  of  the  Pullmans  crossing  the  Line. 
Then,  watching  his  chance,  he  was  to  board  the 
train,  pull  on  a  gold-braided  cap,  and  pose  as  an 
immigration  official.  He  intended  to  come  to  me 


52         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

first,  close  to  the  end  of  the  car,  and  ask  if  I  was 
an  American  or  a  Canadian  citizen,  and  what  money 
I  carried.  My  part  of  the  play  was  to  hand  over 
a  phony  roll,  for  which  he'd  give  me  a  duly-pre- 
pared official  receipt,  with  the  announcement  that 
the  money  would  be  returned  to  me  at  Windsor,  or 
at  Buffalo,  as  the  case  happened  to  be.  Then  he'd 
go  down  the  line,  gathering  in  all  he  could.  I  was 
to  be  both  a  stick-up  and  a  come-on,  of  course,  for 
when  the  others  saw  me  pass  over  my  cash  in  hand 
they'd  conclude  a  genuine  immigration  officer  was 
on  the  job  and  a  new  inland  revenue  regulation  was 
being  put  in  force.  In  case  anything  suspicious 
happened,  I  was  to  throw  Bud  the  high-sign.  But 
if  all  went  well  he  could  stow  his  gold-braided  cap, 
drop  off  the  Pullman,  and  repeat  the  coup  on  any 
train  that  happened  to  be  moving  in  the  opposite 
direction. 

It  could  be  worked  only  once,  Bud  explained,  but 
it  ought  to  make  good  picking  while  it  lasted.  In 
explaining  this  Bud  told  me  how  he'd  made  almost 
as  good  money  at  the  same  points,  working  out  a 
coup  of  baggage-check  switching.  He'd  check  a 
trunk  full  of  cheap  clothes  from  some  Canadian 
point,  go  through  to  the  baggage-car  at  the  border, 
and  have  the  trunk  examined  and  passed.  Then 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE         53 

he'd  tarry  to  strap  it  up.  If  he  got  a  minute  or  two 
alone  in  that  car  he  made  it  a  point  to  pick  out  the 
most  promising  trunk  and  switch  claim-checks 
between  it  and  his  own.  His  own  claim-check,  at 
the  end  of  the  trip,  would  call  for  the  good  trunk,  a 
transfer  company  would  deliver  it  at  a  flivver 
address,  and  Bud  would  move  on  as  soon  as  it  came, 
without  leaving  too  many  traces  as  he  went. 

The  new  coup,  Bud  claimed,  was  the  better  of  the 
two.  And  he  was  glad  to  get  to  Detroit  to  try  it  out. 
He  was  as  interested  in  it,  in  fact,  as  a  Belasco  would 
be  in  a  new  production.  But  that  particular  per- 
formance never  got  to  the  footlights.  For  it  was  at 
Detroit  that  poor  old  Bud  got  his  fall. 

I  was  cooped  at  the  Stattler,  and  Bud  was  holding 
out  at  the  Pontchetrain.  He'd  sidetracked  there  for 
a  day,  working  out  a  slough  against  a  Grosse  Pointe 
automobile  nabob  who'd  made  half  a  million  out 
of  war  munitions  and  was  trying  to  spend  the  most 
of  it  in  one  dinner  orgy.  He  was  just  laying  the  last 
ropes  when  Shy  Sadie  Driscoll  blew  into  Bud's  ken- 
nel and  invited  him  to  swing  in  with  her  on  a  turn 
of  the  old  panel  game  with  some  new  trimmings. 
Bud  "threw  her  flat"  as  she  put  it.  Shy  Sadie  tried 
to  wipe  out  that  throw-down  by  blowing  the  tout 
and  having  a  fancy  cop  walk  in  on  Bud  when  he 


54         THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

was  pretty  anxious  to  be  alone.  But  they  had  him 
with  the  goods  on.  The  best  he  could  do  was  to 
save  me  out  of  the  ruins.  He  lied  like  a  trooper, 
through  three  hours  of  third-degreeing,  just  to  save 
my  scalp.  At  the  very  first  move  he'd  thrown  me 
the  high-sign  not  to  recognize  him,  not  to  know  him, 
not  to  be  interested  in  him.  I  caught  the  cue,  and 
stuck  to  it.  And  to  Shy  Sadie's  mortification,  I 
made  good  on  it.  But  it  hurt,  even  to  have  to  play 
out  that  part  of  giving  my  old  running-mate  the  cold 
shoulder. 

It  hurt  me  a  lot  more,  though,  not  being  able  to 
get  near  the  man  who  needed  me  more  than  ever 
before.  But  Bud  commanded  me  to  stand  clear. 
He  said  it  was  the  only  way.  He  seemed  to  know 
what  was  coming.  And  it  came  sooner  than  I 
imagined.  It  was  a  railroad  case,  a  through  trip 
and  no  stops.  They  gave  him  Jackson  for  ten  years. 

He  sent  me  word,  later  on,  that  he  wanted  to  see 
me.  He  explained  that  the  case  against  him  was 
closed  and  that  there'd  be  no  risk  in  the  visit. 

So  I  went  up  to  Jackson  by  the  interurban.  It 
was  my  first  glimpse  of  a  state  penitentiary.  I'd 
never  even  glimpsed  the  inside  of  a  county  jail.  I'd 
never  dreamed  what  it  was  that  had  been  standing, 
all  the  while,  just  one  turn  of  the  road  ahead  of  me. 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE         55 

But  that  first  glimpse  of  stir  suddenly  opened  my 
eyes.  I  beheld  a  living  tomb,  and  the  horror  of  it, 
the  hopelessness  of  it,  struck  de'ep,  like  a  knife,  into 
my  heart. 

I  tried  to  hide  this  horror  during  my  long  talk  with 
Bud,  but  it  was  no  use.  Bud  even  tried  to  make  me 
see  the  thing  in  a  different  light,  and  explained  that 
Jackson  was  one  of  the  best  pens  in  the  Union,  and 
that,  on  the  whole,  he  was  lucky  to  be  in  a  place 
where  he'd  get  such  all-round  good  treatment  and 
so  many  chances  for  a  commutation.  But  Bud  had 
something  more  than  his  own  troubles  to  talk  about. 

"Kid,"  he  asked  me,  "what's  the  size  of  your 
roll?" 

It  had  slimmed  down  to  a  couple  of  tens,  and  I 
told  him  so. 

Then  he  sat  studying  my  face. 

"Well,  I've  been  thinking  about  this  for  a  long 
time.  I  could  see  there  was  always  a  chance  of  it 
coming.  And  I've  gathered  the  gazabos  to  have 
you  taken  care  of!" 

"But  I  want  you  to  take  care  of  me,"  I  told  him. 

He  shook  his  head.  "They've  got  me  here — and 
ten  years  is  a  long  time !" 

The  thought  of  it  made  me  wild. 

"But  I'll  get  you  out  of  here.     I'll  get  the  best 


56         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

mouth-piece  in  the  profession.  I'll  pump  brine  over 
that  governor  until  I  wash  a  pardon  out  of  his  sys- 
tem !" 

Bud  only  laughed,  though  there  wasn't  much 
happiness  in  that  laugh. 

"I'm  here,  honey-girl,  and  here  I've  got  to  stay. 
That's  not  what  I'm  worrying  about.  It's  'you  I've 
got  on  my  mind  just  now.  And  I  want  to  do  the 
right  thing  by  you,  kid." 

"What  can  you  do  ?"  I  asked,  studying  his  heavy 
face. 

"I'm  going  to  try  and  square  myself  for  hauling 
you  down  the  way  I  did.  I'm  going  to  give  you  a 
chance  at  the  other  kind  of  living." 

"I  never  kicked  against  this  way  of  living,"  I  told 
him,  looking  him  straight  in  the  eye.  But  there  were 
certain  things  which  I  couldn't  help  remembering, 
although,  at  the  moment,  I  was  ashamed  of  it. 

"That's  just  what's  wrong,"  Bud  told  me.  "We've 
both  been  blind  to  things  you  can't  afford  to  side- 
step. And  now,  Baddie,  you've  got  to  get  busy  and 
have  your  eyes  opened !" 

He  was  so  solemn  that  he  frightened  me.  And  I 
was  busy  wondering  what  he  could  be  holding  back 
on  me. 

"The  first  thing  I  want  to  do  is  get  you  over  on 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          57 

the  other  side  of  the  line.  I'll  never  feel  safe  with 
you  here  in  the  States,  though  God  knows  I  did 
what  I  could  to  keep  you  clear  oi  everything.  And 
I  don't  want  to  think  there'd  ever  be  a  chance  of 
your  facing  what  I've  got  to  face." 

The  terror  of  those  long  black  years,  stretching 
out  endlessly,  one  after  the  other,  and  one  as  empty 
as  the  other,  suddenly  gripped  my  soul.  But  Bud 
made  an  impatient  sign  with  his  hand,  for  it  was 
plain  he  hated  to  see  me  cry.  Then  he  went  on  again. 

"Baddie,  you  were  born  with  brains,  and  you're 
going  to  have  two  or  three  years'  living  among  the 
right  sort  of  people." 

"No,  I'm  not,"  I  promptly  told  him.  "I've  tried 
it.  And  the  right  sort  of  people  always  seemed  the 
wrong  people  with  me." 

"That's  just  what  I've  been  trying  to  tell  you. 
'You're  going  to  have  your  eyes  opened.  You're 
going  to  learn  how  wrong  you've  been  looking  at 
everything !" 

For  a  moment  I  thought  he'd  roped  me  in  for  a 
reform  school  or  one  of  those  penal  farms  where 
you  grow  vegetables  beside  a  man  with  a  pump- 
gun.  And  my  heart  sank. 

"It's  all  fixed  up  and  settled,"  explained  patient- 
eyed  old  Bud.  "For  I  thought  this  out  a  long  time 


58         THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

before  yesterday.  And  you're  going  to  have  a  couple 
of  years  of  peace  and  progress  in  an  Ursuline  acad- 
emy called  The  Pines." 

"Where's  that?"  I  demanded,  getting  ready  to 
back  right  out  of  the  harness. 

"That's  about  fifty  miles  across  the  border,  up  in 
Canada.  And  you're  going  to  learn  a  lot  up  there 
that  I'd  never  be  able  to  teach  you.  And  after  a 
while  you're  going  to  like  it." 

I  sat  looking  at  him. 

"I'd  hate  it,"  I  finally  announced. 

Bud  only  shook  his  head. 

"You're  going  to  have-  a  little  white  room  with 
ivy  all  around  the  window.  You're  going  to  have  a 
clean  white  bed  and  clean  people  to  live  with.  You're 
going  to  hear  birds  sing,  and  bells  ring — and  a  differ- 
ent line  of  talk  than  big-mitter's  slang.  You're  going 
to  study  music  and  sewing  and  deportment  and  have 
morning  and  evening  chapel,  and  big  trees  to  sit 
under,  and  rows  of  flowers  to  walk  between,  and 
real  women  to  talk  over  your  troubles  with.  And 
after  the  first  week  or  two,  when  you  get  over  the 
wrench,  you're  going  to  wake  up  and  find  that  the 
quiet  lives  aren't  always  the  empty  ones." 

I  still  sat  there  staring  at  him.    For  a  minute  or 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE         59 

two  I  actually  thought  that  stir  had  made  him 
squirrely. 

"But  I  don't  want  it,"  I  cried  out  at  him.  "I 
won't  take  it.  I'd  rather  be  here  with  you  than  in 
a  place  like  that !" 

Bud  smiled,  even  though  his  eyes  were  haggard. 
Then  he  sobered  up  again. 

"I'd  rather  see  you  screwed  down  in  your  coffin 
than  ever  come  into  this  sort  of  a  place,"  he  told 
me.  "And  for  the  next  year  or  two  you  can't  stay 
loose  this  side  of  the  line.  It's  all  paid  for  and  set- 
tled, that  new  berth  of  yours.  I've  seen  to  that. 
And  if  you  ever  thought  anything  of  me  you'll  take 
the  chance  that  I'm  trying  to  give  you." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  I  asked,  struggling  in 
vain  to  keep  my  face  straight. 

"Because  it'll  make  things  easier  for  me  here, 
-knowing  I'm  trying  to  square  for  what  I  did  to 
you!" 

And  that,  I  remembered,  was  how  I  came  to  go 
up  to  the  Ursuline  academy. 

It  wasn't  exactly  the  same  as  stir,  but,  at  first,  it 
seemed  almost  as  bad  to  me.  I  don't  know  what 
kept  me  from  going  crazy.  When  I  tried  a  break- 
away, at  the  end  of  the  third  week,  they  got  me  back 


60         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

before  I  could  board  a  Wabash  train  for  the  Fallss 
got  me  back  the  same  as  though  I'd  been  a  lifter  in 
an  up-state  reformatory. 

I  went  back,  but  it  began  to  make  me  bitter 
toward  Bud.  I  secretly  accused,  him  of  trying  to 
hand  me  a  dose  of  his  own  medicine.  I  even  won- 
dered if  he  wasn't  simply  trying  to  save  me  for  him- 
self, if  he  wasn't  merely  maneuvering  to  keep  me  in 
pickle  there  until  he  could  rope  a  reprieve  and  come 
and  carry  me  off.  For  I  seemed  to  be  in  a  world  of 
sleep-walkers.  They  were  all  so  quiet-voiced  and 
sedate  and  so  far  away  from  my  busy  old  world  of 
noise.  It  even  took  Sister  Theresa  three  days  to 
teach  me  how  to  sit  down  in  a  chair.  I'd  done  it 
wrong,  all  my  life,  without  knowing  it.  And  I  had 
to  do  without  my  face-powder,  and  cut  out  the  slang, 
and  learn  how  to  pitch  my  voice  and  face  lights-out 
at  nine  o'clock — at  nine  o'clock,  and  Little  Me  the 
night-owl  who  used  to  hit  the  hay  when  the  milk- 
wagons  were  rattling  up  from  the  ferry-slips !  There 
were  a  lot  of  other  things  I  had  to  learn,  though  I 
didn't  seem  to  know  it  at  the  time.  There  was  a 
change  taking  place,  though  I  couldn't  see  it. 

It  wasn't  until  Copperhead  Kate  came  to  see  me 
at  The  Pines  that  I  realized  how  great  this  change 
already  was.  She  came  heavily  veiled,  and  dressed 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          61 

all  in  black,  and  she  carried  herself  as  discreetly  as 
though  she  were  under  the  eyes  of  twenty  elbows  at 
once.  But  I  could  feel  the  difference.  She  was 
snaky  and  brazen  and  hard,  and  all  her  affectations 
of  gentility  struck  me  as  grotesque.  She  told  me 
that  Bud's  health  was  bad  at  Jackson,  and  that  we 
ought  to  do  something  to  get  him  out.  I  hated  her 
more  than  ever,  not  only  because  I  felt  she  had  come 
to  spy  on  me,  but  also  because  she  could  still  speak 
of  Bud  Griswold  with  such  a  proprietary  air.  I 
think  she  envied  me,  and  was  glad  of  anything  that 
would  make  me  miserable.  She  went  away  saying 
she'd  be  glad  to  carry  any  message  I  cared  to  send 
in  to  Bud,  and  left  me  a  Saginaw  address  to  send 
it  to. 

I  thought  about  Bud  a  great  deal,  the  next  week 
or  two.  I  worried  over  him.  It  was  only  on  the  last 
jSaturday  of  every  month  that  we  were  allowed  out, 
always  with  one  of  the  Sisters.  I  had  grown  friend- 
lier with  Sister  Angelica  than  with  any  of  the  oth- 
ers, for  we  both  loved  candy,  and  often,  in  the 
recreation  rooms,  ate  a  little  box  of  smuggled  choco- 
lates together.  On  the  next  Saturday  out,  instead 
of  being  in  the  dentist's  chair  where  I  was  supposed 
to  be,  I  bought  a  pound  of  Canadian  maple-sugar 
and  in  Wanless'  hardware  store  came  into  posses- 


62         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

sion  of  a  twelve-inch  hack-saw  blade  of  the  finest 
tempered  steel.  It  was  so  finely  tempered  that  back 
in  my  room  I  was  able  to  coil  it  up  like  a  watch- 
spring,  and  wire  it  together  with  a  couple  of  hair- 
pins. Then  I  melted  down  about  half  of  my  maple- 
sugar  over  an  alcohol-lamp  and  poured  it  into  a 
round  soap-dish.  Before  it  hardened  I  dropped  the 
coiled-up  saw  into  the  center  of  it.  In  half  an  hour, 
when  I  turned  it  out  it  looked  nothing  more  than 
a  cake  of  maple-sugar.  Then  I  tied  it  up  carefully, 
and  bribed  one  of  the  day-scholars  to  mail  it  to  Cop- 
perhead Kate  for  me,  with  a  little  unsigned  note  of 
instruction  inside. 

It  was  two  weeks  later  that  Copperhead  Kate 
reappeared  in  the  bald,  white-walled,  curtainless 
reception  room  of  the  Ursuline  academy.  She  was 
still  in  black,  but  this  time  her  veil  was  of  heavy 
crape. 

"Can  you  get  rid  of  this  woman?"  she  said  to  me 
between  her  teeth,  for  Sister  Angelica  had  accom- 
panied me  to  that  white-walled  room  with  its  six 
pictures  of  six  different  Saints. 

Sister  Angelica,  I  think,  read  my  face  only  too 
well  as  I  asked  for  a  talk  with  my  caller  on  family 
affairs.  But  she  went  from  the  room  without  f 
word. 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE          63 

"Something's  wrong!"  I  said,  swinging  about  on 
Copperhead  Kate  the  moment  we  were  alone.  She 
had  taken  a  watch  from  her  purse  and  was  holding 
it  in  her  hand.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  was  Bud's 
time-piece.  And  my  heart  began  to  pound. 

"I  guess  you'd  better  stiffen  up  for  a  shock,"  my 
caller  told  me,  watching  my  face  with  her  sleepy 
green  eyes. 

"What's  happened?"  I  demanded,  staring  at  the 
watch. 

"Bud  wanted  you  to  have  this,"  Copperhead  Kate 
explained  as  she  passed  the  watch  over  to  me. 

"Where's  Bud?"  I  asked,  almost  in  a  scream. 
Copperhead  Kate  warned  me,  by  a  movement,  not 
to  raise  my  voice. 

"They  shot  Bud  three  days  ago  when  he  was  try- 
ing to  make  his  get-away,"  I  heard  the  woman  in 
•black  saying  to  me.  I  sat  staring  at  her  veil.  All 
the  world  went  misty  in  front  of  me. 

"They  shot  him?"  I  echoed.  The  face  behind  the 
veil  moved  slowly  up  and  down.  I  sat  there  a  long 
time,  without  moving. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  I  whispered,  at  last.  It  struck 
me  as  odd  that  the  watch  in  my  hand  should  be  still 
ticking. 

"Bud  had  cut  three  bars  away  with  a  steel  saw 


64         THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

that  had  come  in  to  him  in  a  cake  of  maple-sugar. 
He'd  dropped  from  a  wall  when  one  of  the  guards 
caught  sight  of  him  and  fired." 

"How  can  I  get  to  him?"  I  asked.  I  was  on  my 
feet  by  this  time,  but  I  noticed  that  my  knees  were 
shaking. 

Copperhead  Kate  still  sat  studying  my  face.  I 
think  she  was  wringing  a  morbid  sort  of  joy  out  of 
my  misery. 

"You  can't  get  to  him,  "she  explained.  "Not  unless 
you  want  to  dig  him  out  of  ten  inches  of  quick- 
lime!" 

She'd  got  up  from  her  chair. 

"He's  dead!"  I  repeated  vacantly,  holding  on  to 
the  back  of  my  chair. 

Copperhead  Kate  answered  that  question  by  mov- 
ing her  veiled  face  slowly  up  and  down.  I  stood 
looking  at  the  painting  of  St.  Anthony.  I  looked  at 
it  a  long  time.  I  knew  when  my  caller  turned  and 
moved  across  the  room.  I  was  conscious  of  her 
quiet  and  undulatory  advance  toward  the  door.  I 
knew  she  was  going,  although  she  moved  as  softly 
as  a  snake.  But  there  seemed  nothing  for  me  to  say. 
As  I  stood  there  I  merely  repeated  those  two  words, 
"He's  dead!" 

I  was  in  a  daze  all  that  week.    The  whole  world 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          65 

seemed  to  have  stopped.  I'd  hitched  my  wagon  to 
Bud,  and  they'd  put  his  light  out.  I'd  tried  to  help 
him,  and  instead  of  that  I'd  hurt  him  in  the  only  way 
that  was  left  for  him  to  be  hurt.  He  was  dead — 
and  I  was  the  cause  of  it ! 

I  was  glad  enough  of  my  little  white  room  of 
peace,  during  the  next  few  weeks.  I  was  easier  to 
manage,  after  that.  I  still  hated  the  confinement. 
I  still  revolted  in  spirit  at  the  smallness  of  the  world 
they  had  walled  me  up  in.  But  I  began  to  reach  out 
for  something  stable,  at  a  time  when  all  my  world 
seemed  going  like  the  wooden  horses  of  a  carousel. 
I  even  began  to  study,  for  I  found  that  it  made  me 
forget.  And,  even  more  than  before,  there  were 
changes  taking  place,  although  I  didn't  always  seem 
conscious  of  them. 

I  often  wondered  if  Bud  knew  what  he  was  doing 
when  he  sent  me  to  that  place.  I  used  to  ask  myself 
if  he  realized  that  he  was  educating  me  away  from 
him,  forever.  For  that  was  actually  what  happened. 
The  old  ways  began  to  seem  cheap,  and  the  old 
grandeurs  as  pathetic  as  the  cotton  grape-vines  they 
festoon  road-house  restaurants  with.  I  no  longer 
thought  of  the  big  things  we  might  have  done  in 
that  No-Man's  Land  of  the  urban  outlaw,  if  Bud 
had  only  lived.  I  began  to  despise  that  sort  of  life. 


66         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

I  even  grew  to  shudder  at  it.  I  was  really  learning 
more  than  French  verbs  and  how  to  phrase  notes  of 
condolence  with  elegance.  I  was  learning  to  look 
at  life  from  the  upper  side,  instead  of  from  the 
under.  And  then  I  got  in  the  habit  of  talking  things 
over  with  Sister  Angelica.  She  was  the  only  woman 
I  ever  knew  who'd  never  blow  the  toot,  as  Bud's 
friends  would  phrase  it.  She  helped  me  a  lot.  But 
she  could  never  make  my  world  over  for  me.  She 
tried  hard.  But  that  sort  of  thing  isn't  done  in  real 
life. 

I  stood  the  Ursuline  academy  for  nineteen  long 
months.  And  then  I  made  my  escape. 

Why  it  was  I  don't  know ;  but  I  had  to  get  away. 
There  was  peace  all  around  me,  but  there  wasn't 
peace  in  my  heart.  Perhaps  it  was  the  hardness  and 
the  baldness  of  the  place  that  proved  too  much  for 
me — for  deep  down  in  my  soul  there  was  that 
absurd  but  that  eternal  hunger  for  splendor.  I  was 
blessed  or  cursed  with  a  love  for  color,  for  richness. 
Something  within  me  always  responded  to  the 
polished  surfaces  of  old  wood,  to  the  harmonizing 
tones  of  tapestry,  to  the  high  lights  you  see  in  silver 
and  cut-glass.  If  I'd  been  a  pawn-broker's  daughter 
it  would  have  been  easier  to  explain.  And  I  knew 
I  could  never  have  these  things.  But  I  had  that 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          67 

never-ending  ache  to  be  where  they  were.  And  they 
were  not  at  The  Pines.  So  I  left  The  Pines  behind 
me. 

I  made  a  clean  get-away,  crossed  the  ferry  at 
Windsor  with  my  heart  in  my  mouth,  and  caught  a 
D.  &  C.  boat  for  Cleveland.  From  there  I  went  on 
to  Buffalo.  And  the  next  night  saw  me  heading 
once  more  for  New  York. 

But  it  was  a  different  New  York  that  I  came  to. 
I  returned  a  stranger  to  my  own  home  town.  I 
nursed  the  delusion  that  henceforth  it  would  be 
easy,  instead  of  merely  doing  others,  to  do  good  to 
others.  I  think  I  wanted  to  be  a  sort  of  female 
St.  Francis  of  Forty-Second  Street. 

The  Big  City  soon  put  me  straight  on  that.  It 
began  by  humbling  me ;  and  it  ended  up  by  humili- 
ating me.  I  used  to  think  I  knew  the  Old  Burg 
like  a  book,  the  same  as  the  broads  and  ribs  who 
study  menu  cards  in  the  trotteries  and  sing  This  Is 
The  Life  imagine  they  understand  that  imcompre- 
hensible  old  island  of  unrest.  I  thought  I  knew  it 
better  than  the  office  girls  who  twice  a  day  take  their 
subway  dip  and  eat  wheat-cakes  in  the  dairy  lunch- 
eries  so  they  may  hit  the  movies  at  night.  I  thought, 
because  I'd  been  a  cashier  in  a  Fourteenth  Street 
nickelodeon,  and  a  wrapper  and  sales-girl  in  a 


68         THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

Twenty-Third  Street  department  store,  and  a  feeder 
for  a  stage  ventriloquist,  and  a  chicken-stall  for  a 
successful  gentleman  adventurer,  that  I  was  nothing 
but  a  rabbit  thrown  back  into  the  brier-patch.  And 
I  found  out  that  I  was  mistaken. 

Yet  I  hadn't  been  born  and  brought  up  in  Minetta 
Lane  for  nothing.  The  city  hadn't  been  a  step- 
mother to  me  for  eighteen  long  years  without  at 
least  leaving  me  wise  to  a  few  of  her  ways.  I  knew 
how  to  pinch  bananas  from  Dago  Charley's  fruit- 
stand  on  Fourth  Street  before  I  was  knee  high  to  a 
grasshopper.  And  at  eight  I  was  crabbing  drop- 
cakes  from  the  Greenwich  House  cooking-class.  At 
sixteen  I  was  hitting  the  Harmony  Club  outings  and 
not  shying  at  even  the  thought  of  two-stepping  with 
a  gangster  who'd  croaked  a  cop.  At  seventeen  I 
could  down  my  second  glass  of  suds  and  not  miss  a 
step  on  the  Steeplechase  floor  at  Coney.  Things 
like  that,  in  fact,  made  up  the  splendor  of  life  for 
me  in  those  foolish  old  days.  Yet  the  city  had 
taught  me  to  be  cautious.  You  can't  float  for  long 
about  the  neighborhood  of  Minetta  Lane  and  not 
learn  to  look  out  for  yourself — or  go  under.  And 
I  never  intended  to  go  under.  I  don't  know  why. 
But  I  intended  to  keep  on  top.  Bud  once  told  me 
something  about  Indian  children  being  thrown  in 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          69 

the  water,  when  they're  mere  babies,  so  as  to  learn 
to  swim.  They've  got  to  swim.  Well,  I  was  thrown 
into  the  streets,  in  just  about  the  same  way.  And 
to  swim,  I  suppose,  became  an  instinct  with  me.  Bud 
realized  that  from  the  first,  I  feel  sure,  and  I  always 
respected  him  for  at  least  respecting  my  privacy  of 
life. 

But  back  in  that  city  I  didn't  find  any  jobs  cutting 
the  curb-corners  to  run  me  down.  After  my  second 
day  of  making  the  want-ad  rounds  I  began  to  see 
I  wasn't  equipped  for  anything.  All  I  was  especially 
trained  for  was  a  come-on  in  petticoats — and 
those  are  the  positions  that  are  never  advertised  for. 
Then  I  tried  the  Bureau  of  Social  Employment,  paid 
my  fee  like  a  man,  and  woke  up  to  the  fact  that  I 
couldn't  budge  an  inch  without  references.  And 
the  only  reference  I  could  think  of  was  Wendy 
Washburn.  In  a  case  like  that,  though,  I  was 
ashamed  to  make  use  of  him.  And  a  week  later  I 
was  glad  that  I  hadn't,  for  I  met  him  almost  face  to 
face  at  the  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue  and  Twenty- 
Seventh  Street.  I  was  sure  that  he  saw  me,  and  I 
was  equally  sure  that  he  avoided  me.  He  turned 
hurriedly  into  Brentano's  without  so  much  as  a  smile 
of  recognition.  It  hurt  me  more  than  I  could 
explain,  more  than  I  could  understand. 


70         THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

I  turned  off  the  avenue  as  sore  in  heart  as  a  lost 
hound.  I  didn't  want  people  to  see  my  face.  For 
this  reason,  I  suppose,  I  edged  in  close  to  a  crowd 
staring  at  some  imported  posters  in  Brentano's  side 
window.  Right  in  front  of  me  was  a  white-haired 
old  man  in  a  gray  uniform  braided  with  black.  He 
was  a  fresh-cheeked,  clean-limbed,  spry-looking  old 
man,  and  from  the  bellows-wallet  of  well-worn  pigs- 
skin  which  he  carried  in  his  hand  I  took  him  to  be  a 
bank-messenger  for  one  of  the  trust  companies  just 
around  the  corner.  Yet  he  seemed  to  be  taking 
genuine  delight  in  some  of  those  newly  displayed 
Parisian  posters,  for  unconsciously  he  pushed  his 
wallet  down  in  his  pocket  and  leaned  closer  to  the 
plate  glass  for  a  closer  inspection  of  a  colored  cover 
from  La  Rire.  But  I  gave  little  further  attention  to 
that  trim-figured  old  gentleman,  for  the  more  mas- 
sive figure  on  my  right,  I  suddenly  discovered,  was 
not  altogether  unknown  to  me. 

It  took  me  several  minutes  to  place  him.  Then  I 
remembered.  It  was  Pinky  McClone,  the  con-man, 
the  big,  blue-eyed,  Irish  boy  who'd  been  the 
champion  diver  of  Coethes  Slip  and  grew  up  to  be  a 
lighter-thief  and  later  worked  the  bathing-beaches 
as  a  life-guard  and  incidentally  the  bathers  them- 
selves as  a  dip  and  watch-lifter,  with  an  eye  out 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE         71 

for  any  bigger  pickings  which  the  day  might  bring 
forth.  He  and  Bud,  I  remembered,  had  conferred 
long  and  earnestly  that  day  at  Long  Beach  when  I 
first  met  my  Hero-Man.  But  I,  of  course,  had  taken 
no  part  in  that  conference. 

I  was  just  marshaling  these  different  facts  in  my 
mind  when  I  noticed  Pinky  McClone's  big  bronzed 
hand  creep  out  to  the  pocket  that  held  the  wallet.  It 
was  as  quick  and  neat  a  bit  of  poke-snatching  as 
I'd  ever  seen.  Not  another  person  in  that  closely 
packed  crowd  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  move.  A 
moment  later  Pinky  was  edging  airily  off  toward 
Fifth  Avenue  and  I  was  wondering  just  what  I 
ought  to  do.  Before  I  had  a  chance  to  answer  that, 
however,  a  wail  went  up  from  the  stunned  old  bank- 
runner  and  he  was  sobbingly  announcing  to  a  rather 
skeptical  circle  of  onlookers  that  he  had  been  robbed. 

I  didn't  wait  to  feel  sorry  for  him.  For  Pinky, 
by  this  time,  had  turned  south  on  the  avenue  and 
was  drifting  down  through  the  crowd  toward  Madi- 
son Square,  shaking  hands  with  himself,  I  suppose, 
to  find  that  he'd  worked  such  a  neat  get-away.  But 
he  was  as  easy  to  spot  as  a  light-house.  I  followed, 
close  at  his  heels. 

We  were  well  in  the  square  when  he  suddenly 
stopped,  swerved,  and  dropped  into  an  empty  bench 


72         THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

on  which  lay  a  discarded  newspaper.  I  knew  that 
movement  as  well  as  though  it  were  written  in 
Roman  script.  That  con-man  had  caught  sight  of 
either  a  bluebird  or  a  singed  cat — which  latter  is 
simply  an  officer  in  plain-clothes.  And  he  didn't 
want  his  trail  to  cross  his  enemy's. 

So  I  dropped  down  on  the  same  bench  with  Pinky, 
with  a  fastidious  little  sigh  of  weariness.  I  could 
see  him  inspecting  me  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye 
as  he  bent  over  his  paper.  My  being  there  didn't 
seem  to  add  to  his  troubles.  What  worried  him 
was  that  plain-clothes  man  who  walked  slowly  by. 
Pinky 's  nose  was  within  six  inches  of  the  sporting- 
page  as  that  singed  cat  drifted  so  artlessly  past  our 
bench.  But  I  had  seen  the  officer's  eye  take  in 
Pinky's  intent  figure.  I  knew  he  wasn't  so  artless 
as  he  looked. 

Instinct,  I  suppose,  advised  Pinky  of  the  same 
fact,  for  he  wasn't  letting  one  move  of  the  enemy 
escape  him,  over  the  edge  of  that  newspaper.  Then 
he  turned  and  studied  my  face. 

He  shifted  a  little  closer  along  the  bench.  I  knew, 
even  before  he  started  to  speak,  that  he  had  decided 
to  take  a  chance.  And  for  some  reason  which  I 
couldn't  quite  define,  I  felt  disappointed  and  dis- 
turbed at  that  decision  of  his. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          73 

"For  the  love  o'  Gawd,  lady,"  he  said  in  a  hurried 
and  husky  sort  of  whisper,  "will  you  help  me  out?" 

I  gave  him  the  icicle-eye,  pretending  not  to  know 
what  he  was  driving  at. 

"A  big  strong  man  like  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  begging  on  the  streets,"  I  gently  but  firmly  told 
him.  But  he  brushed  this  aside  with  an  impatient 
snort. 

"Lady,  you  can  save  me  from  ten  years  in  a  cell. 
You  can  do  it  by  no  more  than  a  move  o'  the  hand." 

"What  must  I  do?"  I  inquired. 

He  sat  there  with  his  legs  crossed,  and  the  news- 
paper held  up  in  front  of  him.  But  behind  that 
screen,  I  knew,  he  was  a  terribly  frightened  man. 
His  bronzed  face  was  exactly  the  color  of  old  cheese. 

"That  man  coming  toward  us  is  a  policeman. 
Only  he's  wearing  plain-clothes.  They've  been 
hounding  me  since  last  winter.  He'll  be  gathering 
me  in,  and  when  he  gets  me  there  I'll  be  frisked!" 

"What  difference  will  that  make?"  I  asked.  "And 
what  do  you  mean  by  being  frisked,  anyway  ?"  But 
I  had  to  smile  in  spite  of  myself.  It  seemed  so 
much  like  old  times. 

"Get  this  under  your  clothes !"  he  said  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  mouth.  He  said  it  hurriedly,  and 
almost  roughly,  for  his  time  of  argument  had 


74         THE    HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

already  slipped  by.    The  plain-clothes  man  was  bear- 
ing down  on  him. 

I  could  feel  the  man  on  the  bench  shoving  the 
pigskin  wallet  in  under  me.  I  neither  moved  nor 
spoke.  I  merely  sat  tight.  The  singed  cat  had 
stopped  directly  in  front  of  us. 

"What' re  you  doing  in  over  your  dead-line?"  that 
officer  was  inquiring  of  my  new-found  friend. 

"I'm  workin' !"  announced  the  man  on  the  bench. 

"Working?"  echoed  the  cop.  "So  I  see — and  pull- 
ing the  old  stuff  right  on  the  avenue!  So  I  guess, 
Pinky,  we'll  have  to  toddle  along." 

The  man  beside  me,  I  noticed,  had  taken  on  a 
heavy  and  sullen  look. 

"I  haven't  set  foot  on  that  avenue  for  seven 
weeks,"  he  protested. 

"You  weren't  up  Fifth  Avenue  there  twenty  min- 
utes ago?"  demanded  the  officer. 

"I've  been  right  here  on  this  bench  for  the  last 
hour  and  a  half,"  announced  the  other  man. 

"Working,  I  suppose?"  mocked  the  guardian  of 
the  law.  But  it  was  plain  enough  to  Pinky  that  his 
tormentor  stood  none  too  sure  of  his  ground. 

"Why,  this  lady  here  knows  I've  been  on  this 
bench  for  over  forty  minutes,"  declared  that  king 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE         75 

of  liars,  growing  bolder  with  the  thought  of  a  get- 
away. 

The  singed  cat  turned  to  me. 

"Do  you  know  this  man  ?"  he  inquired. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"But  do  you  know  that  he's  been  here  for  the 
last  forty  minutes  ?" 

"What  difference  does  it  make?"  I  stalled,  pre- 
tending the  whole  situation  was  a  mystery  to  me. 

"Because  this  man  has  a  police  record  as  a  pick- 
pocket, and  there's  just  been  a  job  a  couple  of  blocks 
up  the  avenue  that  looks  like  his  work." 

"What  was  stolen?" 

"A  bank-runner's  wallet  full  of  checks  and  notes," 
was  the  reply. 

"And  I'd  be  roosting  here  on  a  park  bench, 
wouldn't  I,"  broke  in  Pinky,  "if  I  was  heeled  with 
a  haul  like  that !" 

"How  do  I  "know  you're  not  heeled  with  it?" 
demanded  the  officer. 

"Satisfy  yourself,  my  friend,  satisfy  yourself," 
luxuriously  announced  the  man  on  the  bench.  The 
detective  dropped  down  on  the  seat  beside  him.  I 
could  see  him  pass  his  hands  over  the  other  man's 
body,  like  a  mesmerist.  It  was  a  startlingly  adroit 


76         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

series  of  passes  and  touches.  It  couldn't  have  taken 
half  a  minute.  But  it  seemed  to  satisfy  the  officer 
of  the  law. 

He  was  plainly  disappointed,  and  Pinky,  I  could 
see,  was  enjoying  the  discomfiture  of  his  oppressor. 
And  I  considered  that  it  was  about  time  for  me  to 
step  into  the  game. 

"Are  you  an  officer?"  I  demanded. 

The  man  standing  close  beside  Pinky  McClone 
explained  that  he  was  an  officer,  or,  rather  an  opera- 
tive for  Locke's  office,  and  that  a  big  part  of  the 
Locke  Agency  work  had  to  do  with  the  Bankers' 
Protective  Association.  Pinky  was  leisurely  fold- 
ing up  his  newspaper,  prior  to  moving  on. 

"All  right,"  I  sang  out  to  that  operative,  "grab 
your  man.  He's  stalling." 

It  was  like  a  horse  sneezing  in  a  feed-bag. 

"He's  what?"  cried  that  startled  singed  cat. 

"I  say  he's  stalling.  Here's  the  wallet  he  stole. 
He  tried  to  push  it  under  my  skirt  when  he  saw  you 
coming !" 

The  hand  of  that  operative  of  Locke's  went  out 
like  a  lightning  flash.  It  wasn't  until  he  had  a  firm 
grip  on  the  slack  of  the  other  man's  sleeve  that  he 
even  turned  to  look  at  the  wallet  itself. 

The  other  man,  strangely  enough,  did  not  strug- 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE         77 

gle.  I  had  expected  a  fight,  an  out-and-out  free- 
for-all  with  fists,  and  had  edged  to  one  side,  to  get 
a  little  distance  between  me  and  the  dust  of  that 
engagement.  But  Pinky,  for  all  his  strength, 
offered  no  resistance.  He  looked  at  me  for  a  solid 
thirty  seconds,  however,  with  hate  in  his  eye.  He 
could  have  cut  my  heart  out,  without  a  whimper. 

"Excuse  me,  miss,  but  would  you  mind  coming 
along  to  the  Chief's  office  with  us?"  that  singed  cat 
was  inquiring  as  Pinky  and  I  finished  our  stare-fest. 

I  went.  And  that  was  how  I  first  came  to  meet 
the  Chief,  Big  Ben  Locke.  And  an  hour  later,  after 
Big  Ben  had  talked  over  the  case  of  Pinky  McClone, 
and  asked  me  a  number  of  questions  and  ventured 
the  opinion  that  I  was  an  uncommonly  clever  girl, 
he  offhandedly  inquired  how  I'd  like  to  be  an  oper- 
ative, at  fifteen  a  week  to  begin  with,  and  tog  out 
in  new  clothes  and  ride  up  and  down  in  the  Fifth 
Avenue  busses  as  a  "spotter"  for  fare-cribbers. 

I  didn't  hesitate  long  over  that  offer,  though  I 
found  out,  later,  that  he  was  handing  me  the  cake 
with  the  icing  side  up.  But  my  triumph  was  clouded 
by  the  thought  of  Pinky  McClone.  I  still  had  the 
habit  of  looking  at  things  from  the  occasional 
offender's  side  of  the  line. 

"Will  that  man  really  get  ten  years?"  I  asked, 


78         THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

heavy  of  heart,  for  I  couldn't  help  remembering 
what  I  had  seen  of  the  inside  of  Jackson.  And  ten 
years  was  a  terribly  big  part  of  any  man's  life. 

The  Chief  laughed  a  little. 

"It'll  be  more  like  ten  days,"  was  his  retort.  "But 
the  important  thing,  I  guess,  is  getting  that  eighty 
thousand  dollars  in  securities  back  and  getting  'em 
intact!" 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

i  SIGHED  heavily,  as  I  sat  there  on  my  park 
bench,  not  so  much  at  that  long  retrospect  of  a 
wasted  young  life,  but  more  at  the  discovery  that  I 
was  as  hungry  as  a  cracker's  hound.  And  I  also 
remembered  that  I'd  surely  enjoy  a  respectably  long 
walk  before  stumbling  over  my  next  meal. 

Post-mortems,  as  a  rule,  are  apt  to  be  depressing. 
And  I'd  reviewed  my  past  and  worried  my  brain 
until  I  was  tired,  yet  it  didn't  seem  to  throw  any 
light  on  the  dilemma  that  still  confronted  me.  It 
wasn't  my  nature,  I  know,  to  be  morbid,  but  when 
you've  got  a  past  that  you  can't  walk  through  with- 
.out  wearing  shin-pads,  it's  better  to  keep  to  the  open. 
What  was  over  was  over,  and  instead  of  carrying 
wreaths  to  the  cemetery,  I  told  that  hungry  soul 
which  is  so  often  the  stepsister  of  a  hungry  body,  it 
behooved  me  to  hie  to  a  lunchery  where  I  could  par- 
take of  Hamburger  steak  and  hot  coffee. 

So  I  got  up  from  my  bench  and  started  eastward 
toward  Fifth  Avenue.  I  moved  quickly  along  the 
lonely  walks,  for  the  evening  air  had  given  me  a 

79 


80         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

sense  of  chilliness  and  the  thought  of  hot.  coffee  was 
a  spur  to  my  steps. 

I  was  almost  at  the  avenue  when  I  became  aware 
of  a  certain  fact.  Yet  it  was  not  a  fact.  It  was 
more  a  surmise,  the  same  as  you  see  a  lightning 
flash  with  your  eyes  shut.  Some  one  was  following 
me. 

I  did  not  look  back  until  I  had  dodged  a  bus  and 
a  covey  of  motor-cars  scurrying  northward  to 
home  and  dinner.  Then  I  walked  south  a  block,' 
and  turned  east  again.  Then  what  had  at  first  only 
been  a  question  grew  into  a  suspicion,  and  the  sus- 
picion merged  into  a  certainty.  I  was  being  followed. 
And  the  cave-woman  who  still  housed  inside  my 
twentieth-century  skin  sounded  a  second  alarm  to 
me  in  the  shape  of  a  sudden  little  tingle  of  nerve- 
ends. 

I  stopped  and  stared  up  at  a  house-number.  The 
man  who  was  shadowing  me  came  closer,  hesitated 
for  a  moment,  passed  by,  and  plainly  slackened  his 
pace. 

I  still  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  I  was  his 
quarry.  So,  to  try  him  out,  I  swung  about  and 
started  in  the  opposite  direction.  The  moment  he 
saw  my  move,  he  did  the  same.  I  even  crossed  the 
street  at  the  next  corner  and  doubled  on  my  tracks. 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE          81 

The  man  followed  me,  not  a  hundred  steps  behind. 
Big  Ben  Locke,  I  promptly  decided,  was  having  me 
"tailed." 

Then  I  swung  about,  and  calmly  sized  up  my 
shadower.  It  gave  me  a  start  to  see  that  it  was  the 
same  weasel- faced  little  old  man  who  had  watched 
me  in  the  elevator  of  the  Asteroid  Theater  Building. 

I  recognized  the  rusty  black.  Then  I  remembered 
the  narrow-set  eyes  and  the  pinched  old  face  and  the 
air  of  shabby  and  shuffling  gentility.  Yet,  trans- 
parent as  were  his  movements  as  a  tailer,  there  was 
a  note  of  determination  in  those  same  movements, 
a  rat-like  furtiveness  which  made  him  almost  funny. 
But  if  Big  Ben  and  his  office  were  sending  out  that 
sort  of  operative  to  shadow  my  steps,  I  decided,  they 
might  as  well  announce  it  in  a  sky-sign.  A  runaway 
baby  from  the  Mall  would  have  known  what  was 
-after  it,  in  a  chase  like  that.  And  when  you've 
chicken-stalled  up  and  down  a  country  you  kind  of 
get  the  habit  of  watching  the  rear  view  in  your  off 
moments,  the  same  as  a  robin  does,  no  matter  how 
thick  the  angle-worms  may  be. 

Yet  I  prided  myself  on  knowing  all  the  operatives 
in  Locke's  offices,  and  I  felt  sure  this  old  man  who 
walked  as  though  he  had  chalk  in  his  joints  wasn't 
one  of  them.  He  couldn't  be  one  of  them.  So  the 


82         JHE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

rage  which  had  burned  up  in  me  at  Big  Ben  Locke 
suddenly  focused  itself  on  that  wizened  old  gum- 
shoe who  had  the  impertinence  to  follow  me  for  two 
hours  about  the  city. 

It  wasn't  until  I  stopped  short  for  the  second  time, 
and  he  came  ambling  up,  preening  himself  as  he 
came,  that  it  occurred  to  me  my  annoyer  might  be 
nothing  more  than  a  senile  old  lady-killer  dreaming 
he  was  running  down  a  wanderer  from  the  squab- 
dumps.  And  the  mere  thought  of  this  made  me 
madder  than  ever. 

He  was  almost  up  to  me  by  this  time,  walking 
mincingly.  I  was  so  hot  that  I  could  hear  my 
blood  boil  in  my  ears.  But  I  walked  on  again,  wait- 
ing until  he  was  almost  by  my  side. 

Then  I  swung  about  on  him.  I  must  have  looked 
like  a  wild-cat  with  bells  on.  I'd  had  too  much  of 
men  for  that  one  day. 

"How  dare  you  try  to  follow  me,  you  old 
hound?" 

He  stopped  up  short,  with  a  sort  of  startled  wince. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  he  squeaked,  in  a  thin  little  voice, 
blinking  at  me  reprovingly  from  under  his  rusty 
hat-rim. 

"How  dare  you  follow  me?"  I  repeated.  There 
must  have  been  a  look  of  desperation  in  my  eyes, 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE          83 

for  he  began  to  back  away,  a  shuffling  step  at  a  time. 
But  his  thin  old  weasel  face  was  still  studying  my 
face. 

"Really,  you  know,  I  wouldn't  harm  you  for  the 
world,"  he  argued.  "Nothing  was — " 

But  I  cut  him  short. 

"And  how  dare  you  speak  to  me?"  I  continued, 
still  in  my  white  heat  of  indignation.  I  was  in  a 
rage  at  the  whole  world.  And  he  was  all  I  had  to 
take  it  out  on. 

"But,  my  dear  young  lady,  I'm  compelled  to  speak 
to  you,"  persisted  that  weasel- faced  old  man,  with 
his  shoulders  uplifted  and  a  sort  of  apologetic  blink 
about  his  wistful  old  eyes.  I  noticed,  for  the  first 
time,  the  look  of  strained  anxiety,  of  hungry  eager- 
ness, which  made  those  deep-set  old  eyes  rather 
remarkable.  But  the  rest  of  the  face  was  as  hard  as 
nails. 

"What  compels  you  to?"  I  demanded,  staring 
back  at  him.  There  was  a  sneer  in  my  question, 
but  it  didn't  seem  to  jolt  him  in  the  least.  "What 
do  you  want,  anyway?"  I  asked  with  all  the  world- 
weariness  I  could  possibly  throw  into  the  question. 

I  began  to  realize  that  I  wasn't  being  buzzed  over 
by  an  zooing-bug.  The  old  man,  I  began  to  see, 
was  something  more  than  a  street  masher.  But  he 


84         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

seemed  to  find  it  hard  to  explain  just  what  his  busi- 
ness might  be. 

"I  wanted  to — "  Then  he  stopped  short,  as 
though  the  look  of  belligerency  on  my  face  left  him 
a  little  doubtful  as  to  what  extremes  I  might  go. 
Then  he  peered  up  and  down  the  street,  to  make 
sure  we  were  alone.  Then  he  took  a  step  closer  to 
me.  "The — the  truth  is  I — er — wanted  to  explain 
something — something  which,  I  am  afraid,  is  not 
going  to  prove  easy  of  explanation." 

"Then  why  take  the  chance?"  I  curtly  inquired, 
for  I  was  still  an  enemy  to  everything  in  shoe- 
leather. 

But  with  all  his  timidity  he  had  no  intention  of 
being  side-tracked  by  any  mere  display  of  bad  tem- 
per. And  it  wasn't  so  easy  to  stay  in  a  rage  at  that 
funny  little  man  with  the  ferrety  gray  eyes.  That 
much  I  was  discovering,  even  against  my  will. 

"Because  I  think  you  are  in  rather  desperate 
straits,  and  I  want  to  help  you,"  he  explained.  The 
old  idiot  had  apparently  thought  I  was  considering 
the  movie-stunt  of  taking  a  header  into  one  of  the 
park-lakes.  Life  may  have  looked  anything  but 
promising  on  that  particular  evening,  but  I  certainly 
had  no  intention  of  messing  up  my  permanent- wave 
with  pond-weeds. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          85 

"And  what  d'  you  expect  to  get  out  of  it?"  I 
inquired.  My  iciness  didn't  seem  to  affect  him. 

"I  expect  your  help  in  return,"  he  told»me. 

I  looked  him  over,  from  top  to  toe. 

"Say,  what's  your  game,  anyway?"  I  demanded. 
I  think  he  even  chuckled  a  little. 

"It's  a  most  unusual  game,  I'll  acknowledge,"  was 
his  retort.  "And  it  offers  you  a  chance  for  a  most 
unusual  reward." 

"In  this  world,  or  the  next?"  I  inquired. 

"The  one  we  still  occupy  is  the  only  one  we  need 
take  into  our  active  consideration,"  he  retorted,  with 
a  touch  of  tartness. 

"And  what  shape  will  the  reward  take?"  I  pur- 
sued, still  trying  to  size  him  up.  I  noticed,  as  he 
took  off  his  hat  in  his  excited  solemnity,  that  a 
fringe  of  silvery  hair  ringed  his  bald  little  head, 
giving  him  the  disturbing  and  altogether  incongru- 
ous effect  of  wearing  a  halo.  At  first  sight  it  made 
him  look  saintly.  But  at  a  second  glance  it  seemed 
simply  to  make  him  foolish,  for  there  was  little  of 
the  stained-glass-window  effect  about  the  face  of 
that  old  fox  with  the  scheming  eyes.  His  thin  lips, 
puckered  close  to  his  teeth  as  though  he  were  for- 
ever holding  pins  in  his  mouth,  even  had  a  touch 
of  cruelty  about  them. 


86         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"What  shape  will  the  reward  take?"  I  repeated. 

"Any  shape  you  may  desire,"  he  finally  replied. 

"Well,  when  I  work  I  usually  work  for  money !" 

"Then  money  it  shall  be,"  was  his  prompt  reply. 
"The  question  is,  what  amount  would  you  expect 
for  a  couple  of  hours  of  work?" 

"But  what  kind  of  work  ?"  I  repeated. 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment.  His  ferrety  eyes 
grew  narrower. 

"The  attesting  of  a  document,"  he  explained,  with 
an  effort  at  a  shrug,  as  though  to  intimate  that  all 
such  details  were  insignificant. 

"Attesting?  What  do  you  mean  by  attesting?" 
I  promptly  inquired. 

"Well,  perhaps  the  signing  of  a  document  would 
cover  the  case  better,"  he  meekly  explained. 

"But  what  good  would  my  name  be  on  any  such 
document?"  I  demanded. 

"None  whatever,"  he  acknowledged.  "So  it  may 
be  necessary  for  you  to  use  a  name  not  your  own." 

He  waited,  to  make  sure  what  effect  this  would 
have  on  me.  And  I  began  to  see  light. 

"Say,  mister,  my  middle  name  is  Jeremiah  when 
it  comes  to  putting  one  over  on  the  penal  code." 

"But  this  wouldn't  be  forgery,"  he  calmly 
explained. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          87 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you  would  really  be  the  owner  of  the 
signature  you  might  use!"  he  had  the  brazenness 
to  try  to  tell  me. 

"I'd  be  the  owner,  you  say,  of  somebody  else's 
signature?"  I  snorted. 

"For  the  time  being,  at  least,"  he  announced. 

"Might  I,  now !  And  wouldn't  even  that  be  what 
you'd  call  impersonation?" 

"It  might  be  called  that." 

"And  what  would  save  us  from  getting  in  Dutch, 
doing  a  stunt  like  that?"  I  asked,  trying  to  let  him 
see,  by  my  talk,  that  I  wasn't  the  lambkin  he  might 
have  taken  me  for. 

"You  would,"  was  his  reply.  He  had  his  nerve, 
that  old  codger,  and  I  take  off  my  hat  to  any  man 
with  nerve. 

"How?" 

"By  acting  as  the  clever  young  woman  you  are?" 

"I  guess  I'm  not  so  clever,  or  I  wouldn't  be  out  of 
a  job,"  I  told  him,  as  certain  events  of  that  after- 
noon suddenly  flashed  back  on  my  mind. 

"It  will  be  a  long  time  before  you  will  need 
another,"  he  calmly  informed  me. 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  will  be  so  well  paid  for  this  one !" 


88         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

he  explained,  with  all  the  placidity  of  a  floor-boss 
to  a  factory  hand.  Then  he  moved  forward  a  little, 
with  a  sign  for  me  to  follow.  "Will  you  be  so  good 
as  to  walk  beside  me,  toward  the  east  here,"  he  went 
on  in  a  lowered  voice.  "For  I  preceive  a  stranger 
approaching.  And  this  is  a  case  where  caution  is 
of  great  value." 

Absurd  as  the  whole  thing  was,  I  was  beginning 
to  be  interested.  So  I  swung  in  beside  him  as  we 
moved  on  down  the  quiet  canyon  of  the  twilit  side 
street.  He  kept  walking  faster  and  faster,  until  it 
took  an  effort  for  me  to  keep  up  with  him. 

"What  is  this,  anyway?"  I  finally  inquired.  "A 
marathon  or  a  free-for-all?" 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  little  old 
geeser,  pulling  up.  "I  must  have  been  thinking  of 
other  things !" 

We  were  walking  eastward  down  a  side  street  that 
was  all  Indiana  limestone  and  swell-front.  The 
neighborhood,  I  could  see,  was  what  Bud  would 
have  called  a  cuff-shooter  colony.  I  could  also  see 
that  the  little  two-legged  rat  was  heading  for  his 
lair,  wherever  that  might  be,  and  not  just  meander- 
ing along  to  kill  time.  And  I  resented  the  fact  that 
I  was  following  him  as  meek  as  a  French  poodle 
on  a  ribbon-leash. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          89 

"What  are  we  steering  for,  anyway?"  I  asked 
him.  • 

"For  a  place  where  we  can  talk  this  out  in  quiet- 
ness," was  his  reply.  I  came  to  a  stop.  That  was 
the  second  time,  within  the  last  few  hours,  that  I 
had  experienced  a  designing  man  advocating  the 
advantages  of  quietude.  And  solitude  of  that  sort 
held  no  charm  for  me. 

"We  can  talk  it  out  right  here.  But  about  the 
only  thing  that  can  talk  with  me  is  kudos,  known 
to  the  mob  as  money !" 

I  found  it  easier  to  talk  to  him  in  the  lingo  of  the 
underworld,  for  the  situation  seemed  to  smack  more 
of  the  Eighth  Ward  than  of  Upper  Fifth  Avenue. 

His  ferrety  little  face  lightened  with  comprehen- 
sion. Then  he  studied  my  own  face,  critically,  as 
though  he  were  making  some  final  decision  as  to 
whether  or  not  I  was  going  to  fill  the  bill.  The 
result  of  that  scrutiny  seemed  a  satisfactory  one. 

"Then  the  matter  is  easily  settled,"  he  announced. 
"Would  five  hundred  dollars  seem  reasonable  for 
your  hour  or  two  of  quite  leisurely  activity?" 

I  was  staggered,  but  I  tried  not  to  show  it.  It 
was,  in  fact,  my  turn  to  shrug. 

"That's  got  to  include  sleeper  and  first-class  fare 
to  Frisco,"  I  amended. 


90         THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

The  little  old  man's  face  positively  beamed  at 
this. 

"Five  hundred  dollars  with  fare  and  Pullman 
berth  to  San  Francisco,"  he  agreed.  "Or  say  six 
hundred  dollars  in  cash,  if  you'd  prefer  it  that  way." 

"In  cash  sounds  good,"  I  announced,  blinking  at 
him  with  bland  expectancy.  But  he  intended  to 
nail  me  down  before  I  could  hit  the  pay-car.  And 
the  thought  that  I  was  eager  to  fly  on  to  Frisco 
had  given  him  great  satisfaction.  That  was  a  point 
which  did  not  altogether  escape  me. 

"We'll  just  step  in  here,  where  we  can  talk  things 
over  quietly,"  he  explained,  as  smooth  as  oil.  He 
swung  me  about  into  the  side  entrance  of  a  marble 
corniced  mansion  that  looked  like  the  home  of  a 
Pittsburgh  millionaire.  It  was  a  palace,  all  right,  but 
a  palace  with  a  sour-map,  for  every  blind  was  down 
and  every  curtain  drawn.  There  was  not  a  sign  of 
life  in  all  that  house-front. 

But  the  little  old  ferret  whipped  out  a  pass-key 
and  ushered  me  in  through  a  narrow  oak  door  with 
heavy  scrolled  hinges.  He  touched  a  button  and  a 
light  showed.  Then  he  turned  and  relocked  the 
door,  this  time  by  sliding  a  Ruskin  bronze  bolt. 
But  still  not  a  sign  of  life  showed  in  that  house. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE          91 

And  I  was  beginning  to  get  a  chill  from  my  Achilles 
tendon  up.  I  suddenly  remembered  that  I  was 
ignorant  of  both  the  street  and  the  number  of  the 
house  that  I  had  entered.  But  I  decided  to  sit  tight, 
and  see  the  game  out,  whatever  it  might  prove  to 
be. 

"This  way,"  said  the  little  old  man  at  my  side, 
swinging  open  a  door. 

I  let  him  go  first.  I  had  my  second  wind  of 
courage  by  this  time,  and  somewhere  just  behind 
my  frontal  bone  curiosity  was  burning  like  a  head- 
light. I  even  forgot  about  being  hungry.  For  a 
stronger  appetite  had  asserted  itself.  I  could  hear 
the  lights  being  switched  on.  And  I  was  able  to 
smile  as  I  stepped  into  the  room. 

The  ferrety  little  eyes  regarded  me  with  a  sort 
of  studious  satisfaction. 

"You've  got  grit,"  announced  my  guide,  rubbing 
his  bony  old  hands  together. 

"Sure  I've  got  grit,"  I  calmly  acknowledged,  "or 
I  wouldn't  fall  for  a  Black  Hand  frame-up  like 
this!" 

He  chuckled  and  wheezed  at  that  speech  of  mine. 
But  there  was  no  mirth  in  his  laugh. 

"My  dear  young  lady,  this  is  anything  but  what 


92         THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

you  have  designated  it.  It  is,  on  the  contrary,  a 
movement  that  is  essentially  benevolent — essentially 
benevolent." 

"That's  what  I've  been  waiting  to  hear  about,"  I 
told  him,  staring  around  the  room.  They  were  no 
pikers,  the  people  who'd  furnished  that  room.  It 
had  a  Belasco  stage-setting  all  to  the  Cammenbert. 
And  if  she  didn't  peter  out  as  one  went  upward, 
that  mansion  was  sure  the  abode  of  some  fine  old 
mahogany  and  teak-wood ! 

My  guide  waved  me  into  a  chair.  I  made  myself 
comfortable,  watching  him  as  he  scratched  his  bony 
forehead  with  the  tip  of  his  forefinger.  He  was 
getting  ready,  apparently,  for  his  high  dive. 

"You  are  an  intelligent  girl,"  he  said,  speaking 
now,  as  he  had  done  before,  in  a  carefully  lowered 
voice.  "I  saw  that,  at  the  first  glance.  And  I  also 
saw  that  you  were  a  girl  who  could  be  trusted.  So 
I  might  say  that  the  most  difficult  part  of  your 
work,  to-night,  will  simply  be  keeping  your  mouth 
shut." 

"I  thank  you  for  those  kind  words,"  I  said,  clearly 
puzzling  him  a  little  by  my  careless  grin.  "And  I 
guess  I  understand  about  keeping  the  lid  on.  But 
I'd  like  to  understand  about  the  side-lines." 

"You  mean  about  what  you  are  expected  to  do  ?" 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE         93 

"Exactly!" 

"We  merely  want  you  to  go  to  bed  and  rest — 
rest  as  though  you  were  in  your  own  home,"  he 
announced,  washing  his  hands  with  invisible  soap. 

"And  then  what?" 

The  shrewd  old  eyes  studied  me  closely. 

"You  see,  you  are  a  tired  girl,  very  tired!  A 
doctor,  one  of  the  best  doctors  in 'New  York,  will 
be  here  to  make  you  comfortable.  Then  a  docu- 
ment will  be  brought  to  you  to  sign.  You  will  do 
this,  and  before  midnight  a  closed  carriage  will  take 
you  to  the  Grand  Central  Station,  you  and  your  six 
hundred  dollars." 

I  tried  to  put  this  all  in  order,  at  the  back  of  my 
head. 

"And  what  name  must  I  sign  to  that  document  ?" 
I.  inquired. 

For  nearly  a  second  or  two  the  old  man  hesitated. 

"Clarissa  Rhinelander  Bartlett,"  he  said. 

He  watched  my  face  intently.  A  look  of  relief 
crept  into  his  eyes  when  he  realized  that  the  name 
meant  nothing  to  me.  He  even  began  to  wash  his 
hands  again  with  that  invisible  soap  of  his. 

"And  who  is  this  Clarissa  Rhinelander  Bartlett?" 
I  asked.  And  still  again  the  shifty-eyed  old  rat 
hesitated  for  a  moment  or  two. 


94         THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

"She  is  the  owner  of  this  house,"  he  finally 
acknowledged. 

"And  why  should  I  be  asked  to  forge  her  name  ?" 
was  my  next  question. 

He  raised  one  hand,  reprovingly,  and  blinked  at 
me  over  the  ends  of  his  fingers.  My  use  of  the 
word  "forge"  seemed  to  shock  him  a  little.  He 
fumbled  for  a  moment  or  two  in  his  pocket.  Then 
he  produced  a  folded  slip  of  paper. 

"I  have  here,"  he  said,  as  he  unfolded  this  paper, 
"a  duly  executed  power  of  attorney,  permitting  you 
to  exercise  that  right  of  signature." 

I  had  to  hold  my  mouth  straight.  But  I  looked 
the  document  over  carefully  as  he  held  it  up  to  me. 
He  might  have  fooled  a  seven-year-old  child  with 
that  trumped-up  blind.  But  as  I  had  said  before,  my 
middle  name  was  Jeremiah  with  that  old  rogue. 

"But  I  am  not  Margaret  Hueffer,  and  this  power 
of  attorney  has  been  made  out  to  her,"  I  blandly 
protested. 

He  smiled  mirthlessly,  though  triumphantly. 

"But  notice  the  words  'or  bearer.'  Margaret 
Hueffer  or  bearer!  And  clearly  you  will  be  the 
bearer.  So  that,  my  dear  young  lady,  makes  every- 
thing plain  sailing  for  you,  perfectly  plain  sailing. 
But  this  is  not  the  point.  The  point  is  in  the  signa- 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE         95 

ture  itself.  I  mean  to  say — well — er — the  fact  is, 
or  rather,  the  question  is,  can  you  write  a  reason- 
ably convincing  copy  of  that  signature?" 

I  leaned  over  the  paper  again,  to  hide  my  face 
from  his  cork-screw  little  eyes.  The  situation,  at 
every  "step,  was  getting  more  and  still  more  inter- 
esting. 

"Yes,  I  could  do  that  name  to  a  turn,"  I  admitted. 
"But  five  or  ten  minutes'  practise  would  make  it 
safer,  I  suppose." 

He  wagged  his  bony  head  at  my  sagacity. 

"The  fact  of  your  illness,  of  course,  will  make 
the  situation  a  very  much  easier  one  to  handle.  A 
dying  woman,  you  see,  doesn't  always  write  copper- 
plate." 

I  sat  straight  up. 

"So  I'm  a  dying  woman,  am  I  ?"  I  asked,  staring 
him  straight  in  the  eye. 

"You  are  not,  of  course,"  he  explained,  "but  the 
woman  you  are  acting  for  may  safely  be  presumed 
to  be  in  that  condition." 

"And  where  is  that  woman?" 

"Right  here  in  this  house." 

"Then  why  can't  she  sign  her  own  papers?" 

Still  again  the  barricaded  look  came  in  his  shifty 
little  eyes. 


96         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"She  is  not  in  a  position  to,"  he  said.  I  saw  his 
jaws  set  like  a  nut-cracker.  But  I  didn't  think  much 
about  his  jaws,  at  the  moment,  for  I  was  busy  put- 
ting two  and  two  together.  It  took  me  some  time  to 
work  out  that  little  sum.  But  I  did  my  best  to  get 
it  straight. 

"You  mean  Clarissa  Bartlett  is  lying  up-stairs 
in  bed,  on  the  point  of  death,  and  that  she  simply 
refuses  to  sign  the  will  you  want  her  to !" 

He  sat  there  blinking.  Then  he  took  his  turn  at 
looking  me  square  in  the  eye. 

"My  dear  young  lady,  you  are  clever  beyond  your 
years !  You  have  plainly  seen  much  of  the  world, 
and  it  has  brought  you  wisdom." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  such  a  wise  baby,"  I  flippantly  inter- 
rupted. 

"You  are  more  than  wise;  you  are  clever,"  he 
protested.  "And  the  crown  of  cleverness  is  the 
acquisition  of  its  material  rewards." 

"Well,  that's  what  I'm  after,"  was  my  next  mock- 
flippant  retort. 

"Precisely,"  he  said,  "and  that  is  a  question  which 
we  may  as  well  settle  now,  without  further  loss  of 
time." 

I  watched  him  as  he  took  a  plump  and  shiny  bill- 
fold from  his  inner  breast  pocket.  Then  he  slowly 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE         97 

and  carefully  counted  out  six  one-hundred-dollar 
bank-notes. 

I  looked  at  them  hard,  for  it's  seldom  in  this  life 
that  money,  real  money,  comes  to  you  as  at  that 
moment  it  seemed  to  be  coming  to  me.  I  knew 
enough  of  the  life  of  the  wild  to  know  that  it  sel- 
dom dealt  in  such  things.  The  timber-wolves  of  the 
underworld  were  always  ready  enough  to  pass  out 
promises ;  they  were  always  ready  to  slip  the  gilded 
brick  into  your  unsuspecting  mitt.  They  were 
always  long  on  pretensions  and  promises,  but  always 
short  on  performances.  Yet  here  was  a  little  old 
scoundrel  of  the  first  water  actually  flagging  me 
with  real  money.  He  was  flaunting  it  openly  in  my 
face.  And  that  was  enough  to  ballyhoo  aloud  to  the 
world  that  the  case  was  a  most  exceptional  one. 

"Six  hundred  dollars,"  the  little  old  codger 
repeated,  as  solemn  as  an  owl,  as  he  handed  the  six 
bank-notes  over  to  me. 

I  took  them  without  a  smile.  Then  I  counted 
them  and  still  again  made  sure  they  weren't  stage- 
money,  and  then  backed  discreetly  away.  I  did  this 
for  the  purpose  of  stowing  that  windfall  deep  down 
in  my  stocking  top. 

The  little  old  rat,  while  I  was  doing  this,  stared 
pointedly  up  at  the  ceiling,  with  his  clustered  finger- 


98         THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

tips  rather  fastidiously  held  over  his  lips.  That 
lisle-thread  national  bank  was  plainly  something 
quite  new  to  him. 

The  next  moment,  however,  I  looked  up  at  him 
sharply.  He  had  not  been  as  embarrassed,  I  dis- 
covered, as  I  had  imagined. 

"Why  did  you  ring  that  bell?"  I  demanded,  for 
with  all  that  outward  air  of  flippancy  I  was  inwardly 
as  nervous  as  a  cat  in  a  strange  garret.  And  I  had 
seen  him  quietly  reach  out  and  touch  a  push-button. 

"Because  we  haven't  a  great  deal  of  time  to  waste, 
young  lady,"  was  his  placid  enough  response. 

But  I  had  no  chance  to  question  him  as  to  the 
cause  of  his  hurry,  for  at  that  moment  an  interrup- 
tion came.  It  came  in  the  form  of  a  footman,  or 
perhaps  it  was  a  butler,  who  silently  and  quietly 
opened  the  door  in  front  of  me.  Never,  even  on 
the  stage,  had  I  ever  clapped  eyes  on  anything  like 
that  figure.  He  reminded  me  of  a  human  peacock. 
He  was  arrayed  in  a  claret-colored  coat  and  knee- 
breeches,  with  a  silk  waistcoat  and  white  stockings 
and  pumps.  There  were  monogramed  metal  buttons 
all  over  the  coat  and  vest,  and  next  to  a  circus-float 
he  was  the  most  magnificent  thing  that  ever  moved 
through  life. 

But  he  seemed  to  take  no  joy  in  all  that  glory,  for 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE         99 

his  colorless  face,  with  its  close-clipped  sideburns, 
was  as  devoid  of  expression  as  a  mask.  Having 
come  to  attention,  and  having  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
empty  air  somewhere  about  the  center  of  the  room, 
I  realized  that  this  walking  crimson-rambler  was 
about  to  break  into  human  utterance.  Before  he 
had  time  for  that,  however,  he  was  bunted  bodily 
aside  by  a  little  old  man  in  black,  who  hobbled 
petulantly  on  into  the  room  and  directed  a  shaking 
and  accusatory  finger  at  the  little  old  man  in  black 
already  there. 

"Why  in  damnation,  sir,  should  I  be  kept  waiting 
like  this  ?"  demanded  the  newcomer  in  a  thin  squeak 
of  a  voice  that  reminded  me  of  a  wheel  badly  in  need 
of  oil.  It  was  a  thinner  voice  even  than  the  other's, 
though  those  two  strange  figures  had  so  much  in 
common  that  I  instantly  took  them  to  be  brothers. 
The  newcomer,  however,  had  a  touch  of  brown  in 
his  make-up.  Instead  of  reminding  me  of  a  weasel, 
he  reminded  me  more  of  a  chipmunk,  or  a  red  squir- 
rel. His  lean  old  throat  was  more  pendulous  than 
his  brother's,  his  hunched-up  shoulders  were  nar- 
rower, and  his  hearing  seemed  bad,  for  from  time 
to  time,  I  noticed,  he  kept  cupping  his  left  hand 
behind  his  ear,  as  though  straining  to  catch  what 
was  being  said  to  him. 


100        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"Why  bark  at  me  ?"  asked  the  other  old  man,  with 
a  good  deal  of  heat.  "What  have  I  done  to  keep 
you  waiting?" 

The  other  old  autocrat  gave  an  impatient  snap  of 
his  fingers. 

"But,  gad,  sir,  they're  all  here — all  here  like  a 
pack  of  blood-hounds  sniffing  about  the  trail !" 

"Where  have  you  got  'em  ?" 

"How's  that?"  demanded  the  other,  with  his  hand 
behind  his  ear. 

"I  say  where  have  you  got  'em?"  shouted  his 
brother. 

"In  the  big  drawing-room — herded  there  like  buz- 
zards on  a  housetop !" 

"I  know,  I  know,"  was  the  other's  half -impatient 
retort  as  he  turned  back  to  me.  But  he  did  not 
speak,  for  as  he  was  about  to  do  so  still  another 
figure  hurriedly  stepped  into  the  room.  He  stopped 
short  as  he  saw  me.  It  was  plain  he  had  not  counted 
on  my  presence  there. 

"Well,  Doctor?"  snapped  out  the  little  man  beside 
me.  And  the  other  little  man,  with  his  head  on  one 
side,  stood  with  cupped  hand  to  catch  what  might 
take  place. 

The  man  who  had  been  addressed  as  doctor,  I 
noticed,  was  a  good  six  feet  in  height  and  built  on 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        101 

the  massive  lines  of  a  well-fed  pork-butcher.  His 
face  was  blond  and  fat  and  his  rather  watery  gray- 
blue  eyes  weren't  the  kind  you'd  want  to  trust  in  the 
dark.  His  forehead  was  wet  with  perspiration,  and 
he  was  breathing  hard,  as  though  he  had  been  run- 
ning and  had  no  love  for  the  game.  With  a  quick 
gesture  of  his  huge  arms  he  motioned  away  the 
crimson-rambler  butler  who  had  stalked  into  the 
room  after  him.  Then,  still  staring  at  me,  he  hur- 
riedly mopped  his  face  with  a  large  handkerchief. 

"Well  ?"  repeated  the  old  weasel  at  my  side,  as  the 
latest  arrival  stood  there  struggling  to  recover  his 
breath. 

"Yes — well?"  echoed  the  old  red  squirrel  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room. 

"Quick,  both  of  you,"  said  the  doctor,  making  a 
motion  for  them  to  withdraw  beyond  the  still  open 
door. 

"But  what's  happened,  what's  wrong?"  demanded 
the  brisker  of  the  two  old  brothers.  For  I  was  sure 
by  this  time  that  they  were  brothers.  The  scrawnier 
one  with  the  hunched-up  shoulders,  I  noticed,  had 
slipped  over  to  the  second  door  through  which  I  had 
entered  the  room.  I  saw  him  lock  that  door  and 
quietly  pocket  the  key.  And  I  remembered  that  it 
marked  my  only  visible  avenue  of  escape. 


102        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"Come  outside,"  commanded  the  doctor.  He  was 
already  backing  off  toward  the  still  open  door.  The 
two  little  old  men  followed  him,  with  creaking  agil- 
ity, like  two  rusty  old  crows  on  the  wing. 

I  sat  there  with  my  knees  crossed  as  one  of  the 
old  conspirators  reached  back  and  swung  the  door 
shut.  But  the  moment  this  closed  door  stood  between 
me  and  that  mysterious  trio  I  darted  across  the 
room  and  got  an  ear  against  the  panel. 

"Well,  what  is  it  ?"  I  heard  in  the  thin  falsetto  of 
a  half -querulous  resentment. 

"Bartlett,  it's  too  late!"  was  the  other  man's 
answer.  It  was  said  in  little  more  than  a  husky 
whisper,  but  I  could  hear  it  plainly  enough,  for  it 
seemed  to  come  with  the  weight  of  a  thunder-clap. 

"Too  late  ?  Why  too  late  ?"  queried  the  squeakier 
voice. 

"Because  she  is  dead!"  was  the  other  man's 
answer. 


I  stood  with  my  face  pressed  flat  against 
a  panel  of  that  hardwood  door  a  shiver  of 
excitement  went  through  my  stooping  body.  I  had 
stumbled  across  a  bigger  movement  than  I  had 
dreamed  of.  And  that  movement  had  taken  on  a 
turn  which  was  plainly  staggering  to  my  two  old 
friends  in  rusty  black.  For  even  through  my  door- 
panel  I  could  feel  the  silence  that  struck  them  dumb, 
for  a  moment,  at  that  massive  doctor's  unlooked-for 
message. 

"But  that  girl  can't  be  dead!"  quaveringly  pro- 
tested one  of  the  old  brothers.  "Why,  she  was  as 
alive  as  I  am,  forty  minutes  ago !" 

"More  so,  probably,"  amended  the  other  brother 
tartly.  "For  instead  of  gasping  over  this — this 
calamity,  we'd  better  try  to  find  out  what's  best  to 
be  done!" 

This  was  followed  by  a  moment  or  two  of 
unbroken  silence. 

"Who  knows  about  this?"  demanded  the  same 
103 


104        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

voice  that  had  spoken  last.  I  knew  it  was  the  little 
old  man  who  had  followed  me  through  the  city. 

"Nobody  but  the  nurse — I'm  positive  of  that," 
was  the  doctor's  answer. 

Again  there  was  a  silence. 

"If  Brother  Ezra  will  take  a  suggestion  from 
me,"  began  one  of  the  piping-voiced  old  conspira- 
tors. But  Brother  Ezra  shut  him  off  short. 

"Please  do  not  croak  at  me,  Enoch,  when  I'm 
trying  to  think."  And  I  could  hear  him  abstract- 
edly and  meditatively  repeat  that  final  phrase :  "Try- 
ing to  think — trying  to  think." 

"But  we  haven't  got  time  for  thinking,"  broke  in 
the  fat  doctor.  I  could  hear  the  quick  and  decisive 
snapping  of  a  finger-knuckle. 

"You're  right,  Klinger,  you're  right,"  announced 
the  old  boy  whose  name  seemed  to  be  Ezra.  "But 
we're  going  to  take  time  to  act.  And  it's  still  not 
too  late  for  that !" 

"But  a  dead  woman  can't — " 

"Never  mind  that,"  I  heard  the  thinner  voice 
retort.  "It's  the  live  woman  we've  got  to  count 
on." 

"Do  you  mean  that  baby-faced  thing  you've  got 
in  there  ?"  demanded  the  somewhat  incredulous  Doc- 
tor Klinger. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        105 

"I  mean  that  baby- face !"  was  the  old  man's  deter- 
mined retort.  "For  this  thing  has  got  to  go 
through !" 

"It's  gone  through!"  ground  out  the  heavier 
voice. 

"Not  the  way  I  intend  it  to,"  shrilly  corrected 
the  other.  "And  if  the  girl's  dead  the  first  thing 
we've  got  to  do  is  to  get  her  out  of  that  bed !" 

"Her?    Who?" 

"The  body,  of  course !" 

"But  get  it  where?"  demanded  the  other,  appar- 
ently still  dazed. 

"Why,  out  of  sight,  up-stairs,  on  the  roof,  any- 
where !" 

"But  how  is  that  going  to  help  us  ?" 

That  stodgy  doctor,  it  was  plain  to  see,  had  a 
tendency  to  travel  by  freight. 

"Why,  if  that  Ledwidge  woman  can  be  trusted, 
it's  going  to  do  more  than  help  us.  It's  going  to 
save  the  day  for  us." 

"I'd  trust  that  trained  nurse  with  anything," 
announced  the  doctor.  "She's  been  on  our  side 
from  the  moment  she  stepped  into  this  house." 

"We'll  need  her  there,"  amended  the  little  old 
man's  voice.  "We  can't  make  a  dead  woman  write 
her  name.  That's  perfectly  true.  But  if  you're 


106       THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

going  to  have  a  substitute  for  a  sick  woman,  you  may 
as  well  have  a  substitute  for  a  dead  one.  And  that's 
what  we're  going  to  get !" 

The  silence  that  followed  led  me  to  infer  that  the 
three  of  them  were  thinking  this  over.  And  it  must 
have  been  a  very  interesting  subject  for  thought. 
But  certain  inferences  and  aspects  of  it  gave  me  a 
quavery  feeling  in  the  region  of  the  midriff. 

"Just  a  moment,  until  I  see  if  this  street-cat  is 
getting  inquisitive.  Just  a — " 

I  didn't  wait  for  more. 

By  the  time  that  old  weasel  had  the  door  open  I 
was  once  more  sitting  in  my  chair,  with  my  knees 
crossed,  and  a  rather  bored  look  on  my  face.  I  even 
yawned  as  he  poked  his  silver-haloed  head  in 
through  the  opening. 

"'Just  a  moment  or  two,"  he  purred.  Then  he 
wagged  his  bony  head  with  its  silvery  nimbus, 
wagged  it  vigorously  and  approvingly,  and  shut  the 
door  again.  But  inside  of  three  seconds  I  had 
stolen  a  base  and  had  my  ear  back  against  the  panel. 

" — And  get  her  powdered  up,  and  well  covered  in 
that  four-poster.  Your  Ledwidge  woman  can  help 
you  out  in  this.  Then  have  the  lights  lowered,  and 
herd  that  string  of  hungry-eyed  heirs,  the  whole 
tribe  of  'em,  right  into  the  room.  Let  'em  see  her, 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE        107 

if  they're  so  anxious  to  see  her.  Let  'em  stand  there 
while  the  will  is  read  and  signed.  I  want  'em  to 
think  they  see  her  sign  it.  Let  'em  stare  their  eyes 
out,  so  long  as  they  keep  their  distance !" 

The  quavery  old  voice  spoke  with  such  bitterness 
that  I  surmised  the  walls  about  me  temporarily 
sheltered  a  family  somewhat  divided  by  enmity. 
But  I  had  little  time  to  think  this  over,  for  the  chest- 
tones  of  the  big  doctor  once  more  vibrated  through 
my  shielding  panel. 

"But  can  we  depend  on  that  girl  at  such  a  time?" 

'"We've  got  to  depend  on  her !" 

"But  supposing  she  kicks  over  the  traces?  Sup- 
posing she  smells  a  rat  and  tries  to  queer  the  whole 
game  by — " 

"How?" 

"Well,  supposing  she  tried  to  escape?" 

"Why  should  she?" 

"About  any  girl  of  that  type  would.  And  we've 
got  to  figure  on  that." 

"But  Cacciata  would  sandbag  her  before  she  got 
to  the  first  street  corner.  He's  there  on  guard. 
You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  And  we're  not  here 
to  suppose  things.  She'll  go  through  with  this,  by 
heaven,  or  there'll  be  more  than  one  dead  woman 
in  this  house  before  morning!" 


108        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

I  began  to  realize  that  I  had  a  very  pleasant  little 
time  ahead  of  me.  But  I  was  more  interested  in 
what  I  was  hearing,  at  that  moment,  than  in  what 
I  was  feeling.  If  about  twenty-five  hundred  icy 
feet  began  to  make  a  Jacob's  ladder  out  of  my 
spinal  column,  I  didn't  give  that  creepy  sensation 
much  thought,  beyond  surmising  that  I  was  getting 
into  that  game  of  theirs  for  keeps.  For  outside  the 
door  their  talk  was  still  going  on,  and  I  didn't  want 
to  miss  any  more  of  it  than  I  had  to. 

"But  how  can  you  fool  those  people  on  the  voice? 
Most  of  them  must  have  heard  that  other  girl's 
voice,  and  some  of  them  must  have  known  it  for 
•years." 

The  little  old  weasel,  apparently,  was  not  to  be 
stumped  by  any  such  objections. 

"We'll  have  our  woman  whisper — whisper,  do 
you  understand?  She's  a  sick  girl.  Her  voice  is 
gone.  Everything  she  says,  every  word,  must  be  in 
a  whisper.  And  the  weaker  she  can  make  it  the 
better — for  in  half  an  hour,  don't  you  see,  that  girl's 
going  to  be  dead !" 

"Or  our  whole  plan's  going  to  be  dead!"  inter- 
polated the  none  too  optimistic  doctor. 

I  couldn't  help  thinking,  as  I  stood  there,  that 
these  three  worthies  were  accepting  the  death  of  a 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        109 

woman  in  a  very  sordid  and  matter-of-fact  manner. 
It  meant  nothing  more  to  them,  apparently,  than  a 
punctured  tire  means  to  a  motorist,  or  a  broken 
teacup  to  a  flat-dweller.  Yet  under  that  same  roof, 
within  the  last  few  minutes,  a  human  life  had  gone 
out — and  all  they  were  worrying  about  was  how 
best  to  get  rid  of  the  remains ! 

My  thoughts,  however,  soon  came  back  to  myself, 
for  that  strange  trio  were  still  gabbling  away  on  the 
other  side  of  the  door. 

"And  here's  another  point,"  I  could  hear  one  of 
the  old  men  say.  "The  moment  the  thing  is  over 
you'd  better  give  that  girl  the  needle.  Give  her 
enough  of  something  to  keep  her  under  for  a  couple 
of  hours." 

"But  what'll  you  do  with  her?"  inquired  the  man 
of  medicine.  And  I  knew  they  were  referring  to 
me. 

"We'll  get  her  out  of  this  house  and  stowed  away 
in  her  sleeper  for  the  West.  If  she's  so  anxious  to 
travel,  we're  not  going  to  detain  her  any !" 

"Why  couldn't  Miss  Ledwidge  go  with  her — as 
far  as  Buffalo,  at  any  rate — and  make  sure  she's  not 
going  to  double  back  and  stir  up  trouble  here  ?" 

"She's  not  fool  enough  to  wade  back  into  this 
bon-fire !"  was  the  little  old  weasel's  retort.  "And 


110       THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

she's  too  small-minded  to  realize  there's  seven  mil- 
lion dollars  mixed  up  in  what's  going  to  happen!" 

So  I  was  small-minded,  was  I?  And  I  was  the 
sort  of  girl  who'd  goose-step  away  from  a  mystery 
that  was  tangled  up  with  seven  millions  in  money! 
And  I  was  to  be  put  casually  to  sleep  while  they 
carried  me  off  the  field,  dead  to  the  world,  to  wake 
up  on  the  Wolverine  somewhere  west  of  the  Great 
Lakes !  Well,  I  decided,  if  I  was  going  to  do  all  that 
I  was  going  to  hand  myself  the  surprise  of  my  event- 
ful young  life.  And  as  I  heard  a  final  muffled  direc- 
tion or  two,  and  a  hand  begin  to  turn  the  door-knob, 
I  scooted  back  to  my  seat. 

I  had  my  eyes  closed  when  the  door  swung  open. 

"Did  I  dream  it,  or  did  you  say  you  hadn't  any 
time  to  waste?"  I  blandly  inquired,  as  the  weasel- 
faced  old  man  sidled  back  into  the  room.  And  I 
tried  to  look  as  tired  as  I  could. 

His  lips  were  pursed  up,  meditatively,  as  he  stared 
at  me  with  empty  and  ruminative  eyes.  But  it  was 
only  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"We'll  be  busy  enough,  my  dear  young  lady,  be- 
fore the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  is  gone.  But 
there's  one  point  I  want  to  impress  on  you  right 
now.  If  you  have  anything  to  say,  it  must  be  said 
before  you  leave  this  room!" 


THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        111 

I  resented  his  tone. 

"Why?" 

"For  after.that,  remember,  I  want  no  sound  out 
of  you,  not  a  sound  beyond  a  whisper !" 

His  wrinkled  old  face  took  on  an  expression  of 
ferocity  which  rather  surprised  me.  Small  as  he 
was,  I  saw,  he  might  prove  about  one  part  capsicum 
and  three-parts  puff-adder.  And  I  stared  at  him 
with  widened  eyes  as  he  shook  a  lean  and  bony  fore- 
finger at  me.  But  I  was  calmer,  inwardly,  than 
when  he  had  first  spoken  to  me  in  Central  Park. 

"Then  you'd  better  give  me  a  tip  about  what  you 
expect  me  to  whisper,"  I  ventured.  "And  another 
as  to  just  what  you're  expecting  from  me  anyway!" 

He  stared  at  me,  once  more  in  a  sort  of  silent 
,debate  with  himself. 

"There's  a  trained  nurse  up-stairs  who'll  attend 
to  all  that,"  he  explained.  "A  most  estimable  young 
woman !" 

"You  all  seem  to  be  that!"  I  said,  sotto  voce. 

"We  all  seem  to  be  which?"  he  barked  back  at 
me.  And  there  was  fire  in  his  eye. 

"What's  that  trained  nurse's  name?"  I  mildly 
inquired,  remembering  my  part. 

"Alicia  Ledwidge,  I  believe,"  he  told  me,  as  he 
moved  toward  the  door. 


112       THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

And  a  very  estimable  young  person,  indeed,  I 
inwardly  repeated — a  regular  young  lily-white  doe, 
to  be  acting  in  that  sort  of  company,  a  snowy  lamb- 
kin with  a  prune  in  her  pocket,  to  be  holding  out  in 
that  sort  of  house!  But  I  was  compelled  to  keep 
my  thoughts  to  myself,  for  my  friend  the  weasel 
was  already  making  impatient  signs  for  me  to  fol- 
low him. 

He  first  looked  out  along  the  hall  (and  his  atti- 
tude was  startlingly  like  that  of  a  rodent  peering 
from  its  burrow),  apparently  to  make  sure  that  the 
coast  was  clear.  Then  he  led  me  to  an  automatic 
elevator  with  mother-of-pearl  buttons,  told  me  to 
step  inside,  and  sent  me  sailing  upward  like  a  cash- 
bucket  in  a  department-store. 

When  the  door  opened — and  I  noticed  that  it 
opened  of  itself — I  stepped  out  into  a  dream  of  a 
room  all  done  in  green,  with  hangings  and  curtains 
of  sea-green  faintly  threaded  with  silver.  It  had 
green  brocaded  chairs,  and  sconces  of  silver  set  in 
shields  of  paler  green.  It  made  me  hold  my  breath 
for  a  moment,  for  I'd  never  seen  anything  like  it  in 
every-day  life  before.  There  was  both  grandeur 
and  good  taste  there,  in  every  corner  of  it,  and  it 
made  the  motion-picture  sets  of  Fifth  Avenue  homes 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        113 

that  I'd  seen  look  like  paper  roses.  And  this  was  the 
real  thing. 

But  even  here  I  had  little  time  taking  things  in, 
for  at  about  the  same  moment  that  I  stepped  from 
the  elevator  a  woman  in  the  full  uniform  of  a 
trained  nurse  stepped  through  a  door  in  the  opposite 
wall. 

I  looked  her  over  with  a  good  deal  of  care,  for  I 
felt  that  I  might  see  considerable  of  her,  before  that 
night  was  over.  And  she,  too,  looked  me  over 
quickly  and  sharply,  although  her  eyes  were  about 
as  non-committal  as  anything  I'd  seen  for  some 
time.  She  was  not  as  young  a  woman  as  I  had 
expected.  And  the  moment  I  clapped  eyes  on  her 
I  knew  that  she  had  a  mind  of  her  own  and  a  brain 
that  could  work  overtime  if  it  had  to.  She  was  an 
inch  or  two  taller  than  I  was,  and  much  better-look- 
ing. I  suppose  it  was  her  uniform  that  made  her 
seem  so  cool  and  calm  and  full  of  that  cleared-for- 
action-and-what-comes-next  air  of  hers. 

"Are  you  Miss  Ledvvidge?"  I  meekly  inquired. 

Her  nod  told  me  that  she  was. 

"Well,  I  was  sent  here  for  certain  work  which  I 
was  told  you  would  explain  to  me,"  I  announced. 

"What  is  your  name?"  she  asked.     She  spoke 


114       THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

coolly,  and  with  a  note  of  authority.  But  there  was 
something  about  her  I  couldn't  help  liking. 

"Baddie  Pretlow,"  I  told  her. 

"And  you  have  no  idea  of  what  you  are  to  do?" 
she  demanded. 

"The  main  point  seemed  to  be  for  me  to 
keep  my  mouth  shut!"  I  retorted.  For  one  short 
second  the  faintest  trace  of  a  smile  played  about  her 
clear-cut  lips. 

"I  believe  you  are  to  be  a  patient  of  mine,"  she 
explained.  It  was  clear  that  they'd  also  impressed 
on  Alicia  Ledwidge  that  the  main  point  was  for  her 
to  keep  her  mouth  shut.  So  I  decided  to  try  her  out. 

"Excuse  me,  but  are  you  a  real  trained  nurse?" 
I  asked  her,  as  she  crossed  to  a  mahogany  table  on 
the  right.  She  stopped  and  looked  up  quickly,  but 
there  was  no  change  in  her  manner. 

"Of  course,"  was  her  quiet  reply. 

She  seemed  the  right  sort,  that  woman,  and  for 
the  life  of  me  I  couldn't  place  her  in  that  bunch  of 
copperheads.  She  didn't  look  like  the  sort  of  woman 
who  could  be  on  their  side.  And  I'd  a  feeling  that 
she  was  the  sort  I'd  rather  have  on  my  side. 

"And  as  a  patient,  what  am  I  supposed  to  do  ?"  I 
inquired. 

"What  most  patients  do.    Go  to  bed !" 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        115 

She  led  me  through  to  the  next  room,  all  done  in 
yellow  brocade.  I'd  seen  enough  French  farces  to 
feel  sure  that  it  was  a  boudoir.  And  it  was  a  beauti- 
ful room  to  be  in,  if  you  were  positive  as  to  just 
when  and  how  you  were  going  to  get  out  of  it. 

"And  what  do  I  have  to  do  when  I  go  to  bed?" 
I  asked,  watching  Miss  Ledwidge  as  she  carried  in 
a  flesh-colored  night-gown  of  hand-embroidered 
crepe-de-chine  with  a  runway  of  French  knots  along 
the  plaza  and  baby-runs  down  the  side  streets.  It 
was  a  dream  of  a  nightie,  the  sort  of  cobwebby  thing 
every  woman  loves  to  slip  into.  The  nurse  must  have 
noticed  that  hungry  look  on  my  face  as  I  stared  at 
it,  for  she  smiled  as  she  motioned  for  me  to  get  off 
my  street  duds. 

"Honest  Injun,  are  you  a  professional  nurse?" 
I  asked  her  still  again  as  I  began  to  unpeel. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be  ?"  she  parried,  as  she  moved 
over  to  the  dressing-table,  without  much  show  of 
interest  in  my  question. 

I  laughed  a  little. 

"Well,  my  idea  of  a  professional  nurse  is  a 
woman  who's  trying  to  make  good  by  helping  others 
when  they  need  help.  I  kind  of  think  of  her  as  a 
person  who's  giving  up  her  life  to  do  what  she  can 
for  the  sick  and  the  helpless." 


116       THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"Well?"  came  curtly  from  the  dressing-table. 

"Well,  I  can't  see  the  Carnegie  Fund  pinning  any 
medals  on  you  for  the  job  you've  taken  up  in  this 
particular  household,"  I  deliberately  announced,  as 
I  wormed  my  way  into  that  cobweb  of  crepe-de- 
chine.  The  smell  of  it  reminded  me  of  lilac-blos- 
soms over  a  clover-field.  By  the  time  I  had  emerged 
Miss  Ledwidge  had  turned  slowly  around  and  was 
staring  at  me. 

"Perhaps,"  she  slowly  shot  back  at  me,  "I'm  doing 
more  in  this  house  than  you  are  aware  of !" 

And  having  smashed  out  that  three-bagger  she 
once  more  gave  her  attention  to  the  cosmetic-jars 
on  the  dressing-table. 

"Perhaps  we  all  are !"  I  announced,  just  to  keep 
her  from  being  too  contentedly  sure  of  her  ground. 

But  she  paid  no  attention  to  that  pin-prick.  She 
ididn't  even  seem  interested.  And  still  again  I  had 
the  feeling  of  being  flat  up  against  a  brick  wall, 
when  it  came  to  the  question  of  that  woman's  actual 
character. 

"You'll  have  to  take  off  those  shoes,"  she 
announced  as  she  came  over  to  where  I  stood 
smoothing  out  my  nightie.  And  off  they  came, 
though  I  stuck  to  my  stockings,  for  I  remembered 
that  I  had  my  six  bank-notes  cached  there. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        117 

**You  are  thin !"  remarked  Miss  Ledwidge,  as  she 
motioned  me  over  to  the  dressing-table.  And  as  I 
sat  there  putting  on  the  white-wash  she  handed  to 
me  I  felt  for  all  the  world  like  a  leading-woman 
getting  ready  for  a  first  night  on  Broadway.  I  rice- 
powdered  my  arms  and  shoulders  and  put  little 
hollows  under  my  eyes  and  liquid-whitened  my  face 
and  softened  the  whole  effect  down  with  a  blending- 
brush. 

Then  I  stared  at  myself  in  the  dresser  mirror.  I 
looked  like  a  Bernhardt  in  the  last  act  of  Camille. 
I  was  the  sickest-looking  scarecrow  that  ever 
escaped  the  morgue.  And  when  that  little  old 
weasel  had  picked  my  bag  of  bones,  I  inwardly 
remarked,  he  had  surely  selected  something  to  suit 
his  own  ends. 

Then  I  suddenly  stopped  smiling  at  myself.  For 
already  I  saw  I  was  stumbling  into  barb-wire 
entanglements. 

I  looked  around  just  in  time  to  behold  Miss  Led- 
widge go  to  the  door  and  hand  my  clothes,  about 
every  blessed  rag  and  stitch  I'd  worn  into  that  house, 
to  somebody  waiting  for  them  out  in  the  hall. 

I  was  out  of  that  chair  in  one  jump.  But  the 
lady  in  the  blue  and  white  uniform  barred  my  way. 

"What   are   you   doing   with   those   clothes   of 


118        THE    HOUSE    OF   INTRIGUE 

mine?"  I  demanded,  starir^  at  her.  But  she  never 
even  winced. 

"It  was  Mr.  Bartlett's  orders,"  she  quietly 
explained. 

"What  do  I  care  for  Mr.  Bartlett's  orders?"  I 
exploded.  "I—" 

"But  Mr.  Bartlett's  orders  are  usually  carried  out 
in  this  house,"  she  cut  in.  And  she  said  it  in  a  tone 
that  reminded  me  of  the  bite  of  a  rat-trap. 

I  could  feel  a  hot  wave  go  over  me  and  by  the 
time  that  wave  had  cooled  off  I  could  see  what  their 
dodge  stood  for.  They  weren't  putting  any  too 
much  faith  in  their  street-cat,  and  they  were  cutting 
her  claws  for  her.  They  were  tying  me  down  to 
that  house  until  they  got  ready  to  let  me  go.  They 
were  deciding  to  keep  me  a  prisoner  there,  until  I 
carried  out  what  they  intended  me  to  carry  out. 

But  if  they  thought  they  had  me  trapped,  by  any 
cheap  trick  like  that,  they  were  going  to  find  out 
they'd  trapped  a  tartar. 

So  I  stood  there,  waiting  for  my  sense  of  humor 
to  come  back.  It  came,  but  it  came  by  freight. 

"Tell  them  to  be  sure  and  fumigate  'em!"  I 
announced,  as  I  sat  down  in  front  of  the  dressing- 
table  again.  "That's  the  procedure  in  most  pens,  I 
believe!" 


THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        119 

"It  is  much  safer,  you  know,  to  have  them  out 
of  sight,"  explained  the  altogether  too  artful  lady 
in  the  uniform.  But  she  kept  watching  me,  with  a 
rather  curious  look  in  her  eyes.  And  several  times, 
later  on,  I  caught  her  studying  my  face,  when  she 
thought  I  wasn't  noticing  her.  Yet  something  about 
her  attitude,  all  the  while,  tended  to  make  me  uncom- 
fortable. It  seemed  to  remind  me  that  I  was  no 
longer  a  free  agent.  And  I  was  right  enough  in 
this,  for  you  can't  go  out  and  look  up  a  cop  without 
even  a  corset-cover  on ! 

I  was  just  deciding  that  I'd  have  to  engineer 
that  night's  adventure  without  the  help  of  the  law 
when  Miss  Ledwidge,  with  a  touch  of  impatience, 
reminded  me  that  my  bedroom  was  all  ready  and 
waiting. 

"Just  a  minute!"  I  responded,  as  soft  as  silk. 
For  as  I  sat  there,  pretending  to  be  sniffing  the  faint 
odor  of  Apres  I'ondee — at  about  six  dollars  an  ounce 
— floating  up  from  that  nightie  of  mine,  I  decided  I 
wasn't  going  to  lie  down  in  the  shafts  just  because 
they  had  the  check-rein  over  my  nose. 

On  the  dressing-table  stood  two  tall  and  antique- 
looking  candlesticks  of  Sheffield  plate.  They  were 
very  handsome,  and  also  very  heavy.  Each  of  them 
was  a  good  eighteen  inches  in  height. 


120       THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

So  I  calmly  reached  over,  pulled  the  ivory  tinted 
candle  out  of  its  socket,  wiped  the  head  of  the 
candlestick  off  with  a  face  chamois  that  lay  on  the 
table-top,  and  meditatively  weighed  the  column  of 
metal  in  my  hand.  It  felt  the  way  a  well-balanced 
bat  must  feel  to  a  league  player  when  he  plants  his 
heels  down  beside  the  home-plate. 

"What  are  you  doing  with  that?"  asked  the 
startled  Miss  Ledwidge,  as  she  stepped  back  from 
the  open  door  to  see  what  had  been  keeping  me. 

I  didn't  answer  her  for  a  moment,  for  my  atten- 
tion was  otherwise  engaged.  It  was  engaged  in 
recovering  from  the  rug  at  my  feet  a  finger-ring 
that  had  fallen  from  that  hollow  candlestick  as  I  so 
menacingly  waved  it  up  and  down.  It  was  a 
remarkable  ring,  made  up  of  a  large-sized  pigeon- 
blood  ruby  surrounded  by  black  pearls.  That  it 
should  be  hidden  away  in  such  a  place  struck  me  as 
odd.  So  I  slipped  it  on  my  finger,  stones  in,  until 
I  had  a  better  chance  to  look  it  over. 

"That,"  I  calmly  explained  to  Miss  Ledwidge,  as 
I  took  up  my  candlestick  again,  "is  going  to  stay 
right  with  me  in  bed.  And  if  any  one  tries  to  spring 
any  second  little  surprise  on  me,  I'm  going  to  spring 
this  on  them!" 

That  trained  nurse  laughed  openly,  for  the  first 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE        121 

time.  She  didn't  want  to,  apparently,  but  she 
couldn't  help  it.  And  while  she  stepped  back  into 
the  other  room  again  I  had  time  for  a  look  at  my 
ring.  On  the  inside  of  it  I  found  an  inscription. 
It  said,  "From  Wendy,  Christmas,  1912." 

That  "Wendy"  jumped  out  at  me  like  a  jack-in- 
the-box.  It  was  not  a  common  name,  and  the  only 
other  time  I'd  ever  heard  of  it,  outside  of  Wendy 
Washburn,  was  in  a  play  called  Peter  Pan  which 
Myrtle  and  I  had  seen  one  Christmas  week.  But 
could  this  Wendy,  I  asked  myself,  in  any  way  be 
the  same  Wendy  as  my  Hero-Man!  And  if  they 
were  the  same,  these  two  Wendies,  what  was  a 
ring  which  he  had  given  to  some  unknown  woman 
doing  in  this  house  of  midnight  mysteries? 


CHAPTER  SIX 

I  WAS  still  worrying  over  the  problem  of  the  name 
in  the  ring  when  Miss  Ledwidge  came  and  led  me 
out  of  the  room.  She  took  me  through  a  passage- 
way lined  with  a  clothes-press  with  carved  wooden 
doors,  then  through  a  heavily  furnished  room  with 
a  big  marble  fireplace  that  reminded  me  of  a  mauso- 
leum, then  through  a  white-tiled  bathroom  with  a 
Roman  pool-tub,  and  on  again  into  a  darkened 
chamber.  On  one  side  of  it  I  could  see  a  huge  bed, 
but  that  was  about  all  I  could  make  out,  except  that 
the  room  was  a  big  one.  And  the  shadows  of  that 
room,  for  some  reason,  began  to  give  me  goose- 
flesh. 

"I  want  some  light  in  here,"  I  firmly  demanded. 

"But  Mr.  Bartlett  said  not." 

"I  don't  care  what  Mr.  Bartlett  said.  I've  just 
got  to  have  some  light.  You  can  do  what  you  like 
later  on,  but  I'm  going  to  know  the  lay-out  of  this 
crib  before  I  curl  up  in  it !" 

So,  plainly  against  her  will,  Miss  Ledwidge 
switched  on  a  few  of  the  electrics.  There  seemed 

122 


THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        123 

to  be  a  good  many  of  them,  one  at  either  side  of  the 
bed,  one  at  either  side  of  a  tiny  fireplace,  and  one 
at  either  side  of  an  equally  tiny  writing-desk.  And 
if  Bud  had  ever  seen  that  room  he  would  undoubt- 
edly have  said,  "Some  crib,  believe  me !" 

For  that  whole  room,  I  saw,  was  done  in  old  rose 
and  cream.  It  had  a  cream  and  rose  chaise-longue 
near  an  ivory  colored  reading-table,  and  rose-shaded 
electric  reading-lamps,  and  a  little  Chinese  pagoda 
of  old  rose  to  stow  away  the  desk-telephone  in. 
Then  there  were  three  rose  and  cream  prayer-rugs 
and  heavy  rose-colored  curtain  draperies  that  re- 
minded me  of  a  glorified  circus-wagon. 

But  the  thing  that  hit  my  eye,  from  the  first,  was 
the  bed  itself.  It  was  something  to  dream  about. 
For  it  was  the  most  gorgeous  bed  I've  ever  bumped 
into,  barring  not  even  that  Du  Barry  contraption 
my  old  friend  Leslie  Carter  used  to  throw  fits  on.  I 
don't  know  whether  it  was  a  Louis-Quinze  relic  or 
a  prize-winner  from  Grand  Rapids.  But  I  know 
that  the  head  of  it  had  carved  Cupids  mixed  up  with 
a  lot  of  fruit  and  vines  and  two-legged  goats  play- 
ing flutes  and  interwoven  flowers  and  ribands  and 
gim-cracks.  And  the  big  heavy  curtains  were  a  sort 
of  lilac  red  with  flashes  of  gold  and  there  was  a 
cream  and  rose  eider-down  as  light  as  sea- foam  and 


124       THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

pillows  as  big  as  a  steamer-trunk,  with  lace-bor- 
dered and  lace-crested  pillow-cases  over  them.  I 
noticed,  too,  that  the  sheets  were  lace  bordered,  with 
the  same  crest  worked  on  them,  and  a  blanket  of 
creamy  wool  was  edged  with  three  inches  of  pale 
rose  satin. 

But,  oh,  the  softness  of  that  bed  when  I  hopped 
into  it;  the  soothing  pliancy  of  it  as  I  rolled  over  be- 
tween those  crested  sheets!  It  seemed  to  take  me 
in  its  arms  and  hold  me  there,  the  way  that  a  man 
who  really  cares  for  a  woman  tries  to  hold  her.  It 
seemed  to  billow  up  all  about  me,  like  lazy  waves 
that  were  floating  me  off  to  warm-scented  islands 
where  all  the  fat  little  Cupids  could  rock  in  the  palm- 
tops and  the  two-legged  goats  could  do  lazy  minuets 
to  the  drone  of  their  own  flutes. 

I  wormed  and  squirmed  from  one  side  of  that 
bed  to  the  other,  just  to  get  used  to  the  softness  of  it 
all.  Then  I  tried  a  stretch  or  two.  And  as  I  did  so 
it  came  home  to  me  how  I'd  always  liked  luxury, 
how  I'd  always  nursed  that  absurd  and  hopeless  ache 
for  grandeur. 

"Call  me  at  noon  to-morrow,  Celeste!"  I  quietly 
announced  to  Miss  Ledwidge. 

But  there  wasn't  the  ghost  of  a  smile  on  that 
nurse's  face  as  she  went  about  adjusting  the  covers 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        125 

and  draping  the  lilac-red  curtains  and  switching  out 
most  of  the  electrics. 

I  looked  up,  with  a  sharp  word  of  warning.  For 
I  intended  to  have  at  least  a  couple  of  those  bulbs 
left  on,  if  Miss  Ledwidge  felt  sure  it  wouldn't  break 
the  firm.  For  it  seemed  very  still  and  shadowy  in 
that  big  room.  It  made  me  feel  creepy. 

Then  I  suddenly  remembered  something,  and  sat 
straight  up  in  that  bed.  I  had  forgotten  all  about 
the  Cupids  and  crests  and  lace-bordered  sheets. 

"My  God !"  I  gasped.  "That  woman  died  in  this 
bed  not  twenty  minutes  ago!" 

And  I  started  to  climb  out. 

"Hush!"  warned  the  nurse,  as  she  tried  to  hold 
me  back. 

"Do  you  s'pose  I'm  going  to  lie  right  where  that 
dead  woman  must  have  been?"  I  shrilled  out  at  her. 
"Not  on  your  life !  Not  for  all  the  money  on  Man- 
hattan Island!  Not  for — " 

"Hsssssssh!"  broke  in  the  nurse  again.  And  I 
think  her  face  must  have  looked  as  frightened  as 
mine.  "That  woman  didn't  die  in  this  bed!" 

"Then  where  did  she?"  I  demanded. 

"When  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  no 
woman  died  in  this  bed,  will  you  believe  me  ?"  asked 
Miss  Ledwidge.  She  was  in  deadly  earnest,  and 


126       THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

she  spoke  with  a  sort  of  coerced  restraint  that  made 
me  sit  back  and  look  at  her.  She  met  my  stare 
without  flinching. 

"You'll  swear  that?"  I  said.  And  still  again  it 
impressed  me  that  this  quiet-voiced  woman  knew 
more  of  that  house  and  its  mysteries  than  she  cared 
to  talk  about. 

"I  swear  it,"  she  replied,  looking  back  over  her 
shoulder,  for  a  tap  had  plainly  sounded  on  the  hall 
door. 

The  next  moment  that  door  swung  open,  and  the 
little  old  weasel  himself  stepped  softly  into  the  room. 
It  rather  astonished  me  to  see  that  he  was  holding 
a  handkerchief  to  his  eyes.  I  even  thought  I  heard 
a  whimper  or  two  as  he  hurriedly  shut  the  door. 
But  the  moment  that  door  was  shut  behind  him  he 
had  the  handkerchief  stowed  away,  and  his  ferrety 
little  face  was  peering  about  in  every  corner  of  the 
room.  He  reminded  me  of  a  somewhat  worried 
stage-manager  inspecting  his  "set"  before  the  cur- 
tain rolled  up. 

"What's  wrong  here  ?"  he  demanded,  as  he  sidled 
over  to  where  the  nurse  was  still  holding  me  down  in 
bed  by  the  arm.  I  noticed  a  new  note  in  his  voice 
as  he  spoke,  a  note  of  power,  a  note  of  authority. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        127 

"Our  patient  is  a  little  nervous,"  explained  the 
quiet-eyed  woman  who  stood  at  my  side.  She  deliv- 
ered this  message  so  casually  that  I  turned  and 
looked  up  into  her  face,  wondering,  for  a  moment, 
if  she  had  hypnotized  herself  into  believing  I  was 
actually  a  sick  woman. 

Her  face,  however,  was  once  more  as  expression- 
less as  a  mask.  And  it  remained  that  way  even  when 
the  old  weasel  advanced  to  the  bedside  and 
pushed  her  bruskly  to  one  side.  With  my  free  hand 
I  could  feel  my  Sheffield-plate  candlestick  under  the 
sheet.  And  that  gave  my  tugging  nerves  a  sort  of 
wind-anchor. 

"My  dear,"  that  old  scoundrel  purred,  as  he 
leaned  close  down  over  me,  "you  do  as  you've  been 
told  to  do  and  nothing  whatever  will  happen  to  you. 
Nothing  can  happen  to  you !" 

Notwithstanding  that  assurance  I  could  feel  his 
fingers  close  about  my  wrist.  They  made  me  think 
of  the  claws  of  a  bird  of  prey. 

"But  there's  too  much  happening  here  already," 
I  protested.  "And  there  are  a  few  things  I  want 
set  straight !" 

"Listen  to  me,"  retorted  that  old  weasel,  and  he 
spoke  in  a  sort  of  hissing  whisper  as  he  stooped 


128       THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

closer  over  my  face,  "if  you  make  one  move  to  inter- 
fere with  these  plans  of  ours,  you'll  never  get  out 
of  this  house  alive!" 

He  was  trying  to  make  himself  out  the  human 
puff-adder,  all  right.  But  there  was  one  thing  that 
didn't  escape  me.  If  he  hadn't  for  some  reason  or 
other  been  as  scared  of  me  as  I  was  of  him,  he 
would  never  have  stooped  to  that  threat.  So  I  sat 
tight.  He,  on  his  part,  tried  to  accentuate  that 
threat  by  increasing  the  pressure  of  his  claws  on 
my  flesh. 

"Hold  on  there !"  I  told  him,  in  no  tempered  tone 
of  voice.  "You're  hurting  my  wrist.  And  you  may 
as  well  know  right  now  that  you  can't  try  to  man- 
haul  me  and  get  away  with  it !" 

"Hssssh!"  he  warned,  desperately,  with  a  wor- 
ried look  over  his  shoulder.  And  for  a  moment  I 
even  imagined  he  was  going  to  see  what  choking 
could  do  to  shut  me  off. 

"Then  play  your  side  square,"  I  told  him,  "or 
you  needn't  expect  me  to  play  my  side  that  way !" 

He  looked  down  at  me  for  a  moment  or  two,  and 
his  eyes  weren't  exactly  beaming  with  love-light. 
Then  he  took  a  deep  breath,  tiptoed  to  the  door, 
peered  out,  and  hurried  back  to  the  side  of  the  bed. 

"Now  remember,  it  will  be  Mr.   Scripps,  Mr. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        129 

Theobald  Scripps  who  will  do  the  reading,"  whis- 
pered the  little  old  man. 

"And  who  is  he?"  I  demanded. 

"He's  the  family  lawyer.  You  must  listen  as  he 
reads  that  will,  but  you  must  never  speak — never,  at 
least,  above  a  whisper.  When  he  finishes  you  must 
say  'Yes,  that  is  what  I  wanted.'  You  must  whisper 
that.  We  want  the  others  to  hear  you  say  it,  for 
it's  our  duty  to  convince  those  others  that  the  legal- 
ity of  this  will  can  never  be  attacked.  They  must 
see  you  sign  it !" 

"And  they'll  believe  I'm  Clarissa  Rhinelander 
Bartlett?" 

"They  can't  believe  anything  else!  They've  got 
to  believe  that  you  are  Clarissa  Bartlett.  They 
believe  it  now,  and  nothing  will  happen  to  shake  that 
belief.  They  know  you're  not  long  for  this  world, 
that  you're  about  to  pass — " 

"Hey !"  I  cut  in.  "Don't  harp  on  that  any  more 
or  you'll  sure  give  me  the  willies !" 

For  just  a  moment  the  little  old  scoundrel  looked 
puzzled.  It  was  plain  that  he  didn't  know  what  the 
"willies"  were. 

"Then,  when  you've  stated  that  the  will  is  satis- 
factory," he  went  on,  "I  want  you  to  whisper:  'I'd 
like  Aunt  Agatha  Widdemer  as  a  subscribing  wit- 


130        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

ness.  And  Miss  Ledwidge  here  for  the  other  wit- 
ness, please !'  "  He  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  at 
the  trained  nurse.  "It's  Aunt  Agatha,  isn't  it,  who's 
the  short-sighted  one?"  he  inquired. 

"And  slightly  deaf,"  amended  the  trained  nurse, 
with  an  ironic  flutter  of  her  eyelids.  But  that  was 
her  only  expression  of  human  amusement  in  the 
incident. 

The  little  old  weasel  turned  back  to  me. 

"Can  you  do  that?"  he  inquired. 

I  nodded  my  head. 

"Then  try  it,"  he  commanded. 

Since  he  wanted  acting,  I  decided  to  give  him  his 
money's  worth.  I  let  my  head  roll  back  and  my 
body  go  limp  between  the  sheets.  I  relaxed  my  jaw- 
muscles  and  let  my  lips  fall  apart.  Then  I  did  my 
whisper  act.  I  did  it  brokenly,  weakly,  as  though 
it  was  coming  with  my  last  gasp  of  life. 

The  old  scoundrel  nodded  his  head,  promptly, 
approvingly. 

"Some  actress,  eh?"  I  impertinently  inquired. 
But  he  ignored  that  irrelevancy. 

"That  is  just  what  we  want,  my  dear,  just  what 
we  want!  And  there's  one  thing  more.  I  mean 
these  buzzards  down-stairs  who  are  all  wondering 
which  way  the  Bartlett  estate  is  going  to  go.  There 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        131 

may  be  one  or  two  in  that  collection  of — of — eh — 
parasites  who  will  want  to  say  good-by.  I  doubt 
it,  after  they've  heard  that  will,  but  we  have  to  be 
prepared." 

"What'll  they  want  to  do  to  me?"  I  asked. 

"Your  Aunt  Agatha,  I  imagine,  may  even  want 
to  kiss  you." 

"Gee !"  I  gasped.  "I've  got  to  earn  that  six  hun- 
dred, after  all!" 

"But  don't  worry,  my  dear.  It'll  all  go  off  as 
smooth  as  a  corps-drill.  All  you  must  remember  is 
to  lay  limp — lay  limp  and  don't  move.  Let  'em  kiss 
your  hand  if  they  want  to.  But  keep  weak.  Don't 
try  more  than  a  mere  whispered  'Good-by,'  a  very 
faint  'Good-by,'  "  he  lilted,  pinching  the  air  between 
a  pointed  thumb  and  forefinger. 

"But  supposing  one  of  that  bunch  should  try  to 
talk  to  me?"  I  demanded,  sharing  little  of  that  old 
scoundrel's  faith  in  his  policy  of  limpness. 

"Doctor  Klinger,  of  course,  will  be  here  beside 
you.  He'll  be  present,  naturally,  to  protect  his 
patient.  And  Miss  Ledwidge  will  also  help.  They 
will  see  that  you  are  not  overtaxed." 

The  old  weasel  looked  up  as  Doctor  Klinger  him- 
self stepped  into  the  room.  That  man  of  medicine 
was  plainly  a  bad  color  and  quite  as  plainly  far  from 


132       THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

being  at  his  ease.  He  tried  to  conceal  this,  I  could 
see,  by  an  extra  dose  of  professional  pomposity. 

"They're  getting  restless — restless,"  he  announced 
in  a  warning  whisper. 

I  caught  sight  of  Miss  Ledwidge's  face  as  she 
glanced  at  him.  It  flashed  through  me  that  this 
calm-eyed  young  woman  had  no  love  for  that  big- 
boned  hulk  of  a  conspirator.  Why  it  was,  I  could 
not  tell.  They  were  certainly  both  in  the  same 
game.  But  some  sixth  sense  kept  whispering  to  me 
that  she  disliked  the  man,  that  she  distrusted  him, 
although  she  couldn't  afford  to  show  her  real  feel- 
ings. 

"I  don't  see  how  we're  going  to  hold  'em  down 
there  much  longer,"  he  repeated  in  his  warning 
whisper. 

I  noticed  the  nurse  and  the  old  weasel  exchange 
glances. 

"Well,  we're  ready  for  'em!"  retorted  the  old 
scoundrel,  with  a  snap  of  the  jaws. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

AS  I  lay  in  that  bed,  in  state,  with  the  light  very 
JL  \.low,  and  the  big  doctor  on  one  side  of  me  and 
the  trained  nurse  on  the  other,  I  began  to  feel  about 
as  important  as  the  Queen  of  Sheba  on  fair-day  in 

• 

Ethiopia.    It  wasn't  until  later  that  the  serious  side 
of  the  whole  thing  came  home  to  me. 

It  wasn't  until  I  saw  old  Ezra  Bartlett  stand  at 
the  door,  admitting  the  visitors  one  by  one,  with 
much  the  same  apathetic  resignation  that  Noah  must 
have  admitted  the  animals  to  the  Ark,  that  the  possi- 
bility of  that  situation  having  its  darker  side  became 
plain  to  me.  They  may  have  been  queer-looking 
people,  that  scattering  of  hungry-eyed  relatives  buz- 
zing like  wasps  about  a  fallen  pear.  There  may  have 
been  something  ignominious  in  their  stares  of 
appraisal  about  that  bewilderingly  furnished  house. 
But  I  was  a  bigger  hypocrite  than  the  rest  of  them. 
There  was  something  more  ignoble  in  my  position 
than  in  any  of  theirs.  I  was  an  outsider,  making 
profit  from  their  grief.  And  I  was  the  one  who 
should  first  and  last  have  been  ashamed  of  myself. 

133 


134       THE    HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

But  I  couldn't  for  the  life  of  me  keep  from 
smiling  at  that  motley  array.  First  came  Enoch 
Bartlett,  with  his  shoulders  hunched  up  and  his 
wizened  old  face  as  alert  and  furtive  and  veiled  as 
the  weasel's.  Then  came  Aunt  Agatha  Widdemer. 
She  wore  black,  and  was  crying  openly  and  audibly. 
She  started  for  the  bed,  but  the  watchful  Miss  Led- 
widge  came  between  her  and  the  hangings  and 
steered  her  gently  on  toward  where  old  Enoch  Bart- 
lett was  making  hypocritical  dabs  at  his  eyes  with 
a  huge  linen  handkerchief.  Yet  profuse  as  was  Aunt 
Agatha's  grief,  I  noticed  that  she  suspended  her 
tears  long  enough  to  sniff  audibly  and  then  ostenta- 
tiously withdraw  her  presence  from  the  neighbor- 
hood of  old  Enoch.  Practically  all  of  the  newcom- 
ers, in  fact,  betrayed  an  active  spirit  of  hostility 
toward  that  solemn  and  solitary  figure,  who  stood 
quite  alone  at  the  far  side  of  the  room,  as  black  and 
sober  as  a  crow,  while  the  others  gathered  together 
protectively,  like  prairie-cattle  before  a  storm,  in 
the  opposite  corner  of  the  shadowy  room. 

That  group  was  made  bigger  by  the  advent  of  two 
gawky  young  girls  with  frightened  eyes.  Then  came 
a  dandified  young  man  in  yellow  shoes  and  yellow 
gloves,  and  a  prim- faced  old  maid  with  a  mouth  that 
looked  as  though  it  had  been  sucking  lemon-drops. 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        135 

Then  came  other  shadowy  figures  which  I  couldn't 
make  out,  for  either  the  nurse  or  Doctor  Klinger 
stood  between  them  and  me. 

But  I  could  hear  them  there  in  the  vague  light, 
whispering  and  stirring  uneasily.  And  I  could  see 
that  they  were  a  group  of  aliens,  unfamiliar  with 
that  house.  I  could  also  see  that  none  of  them 
nursed  any  love  for  the  two  old  Bartlett  brothers, 
who,  fortified  by  the  knowledge  of  their  power, 
showed  small  concern  in  either  the  sniffs  of  resent- 
ment or  the  scowls  of  antagonism  from  that  ill- 
assorted  group. 

The  last  to  come  in  was  a  very  stout  woman  of 
about  forty-five.  She  had  a  red  face,  over-gaudy 
clothes,  and  a  handful  of  the  finest  rings  I'd  seen  in 
many  a  day.  She  was  puffing,  apparently  from 
climbing  the  stairs,  but  she  was  not  in  any  great 
distress  of  mind,  for  once  she  had  crossed  the  room 
she  promptly  and  loudly  demanded  a  decent  chair. 
This  one  of  the  gawky  young  girls,  who  giggled 
involuntarily,  guiltily  got  for  her.  I  could  see  her 
round  red  face,  in  the  half-light,  as  she  peered  about 
in  every  corner,  apparently  sizing  up  each  article  of 
value  in  the  room.  She  seemed  to  resent  the  sheep- 
like  silence  of  the  others,  for  she  fanned  herself 
in  a  sort  of  fury,  and  emitted  a  loud  grunt  of  conv 


136       THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

tempt  at  Agatha  Widdemer's  spasmodic  outburst 
of  tears. 

The  silence  of  the  thing  was  beginning  to  get  on 
my  nerves  and  I  wasn't  sorry  when  old  Theobald 
Scripps,  the  family  lawyer,  came  sidling  into  the 
room.  He  fitted  his  name;  there  was  no  doubt  of 
that.  He  was  a  thin-nosed,  thin-haired  old  snipe  of 
about  sixty.  A  pair  of  glimmering  glasses  rode  the 
end  of  his  narrow  nose  like  a  jockey  riding  the 
thinnest  of  racers.  His  eyes  were  pale,  his  lips  were 
pinched  and  blue,  and  his  protruding  Adam's  apple 
had  the  trick  of  working  up  and  down,  as  he  spoke, 
in  a  most  fascinating  manner,  so  that  you  had  to 
watch  it,  even  though  you  wanted  to  or  not. 

I  eyed  him  and  his  acrobatic  Adam's  apple  from 
my  cave  of  gloom  as  he  tiptoed  mincingly  over  to 
the  doctor,  whispered  with  him  for  a  moment  or 
two,  and  then  looked  solemnly  about  at  that 
shadowy  group  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 

"This  is  painful,  unspeakably  painful,"  he  said 
with  a  sigh,  as  he  produced  a  bulky  and  legal-look- 
ing paper  from  his  pocket.  As  he  was  unfolding 
this  I  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  that  the  two  gawky 
girls  had  politely  anticipated  my  death  by  the  use 
of  two  black-bordered  handkerchiefs.  And  I  had 
to  bury  a  whoop  in  my  pillow.  I  just  couldn't  help  it.! 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        137 

That  brought  the  doctor  down  on  me,  like  a 
hawk.  He  made  a  bluff  at  feeling  my  pulse,  but  his 
fingers  sank  into  the  flesh  of  my  forearm  until  they 
left  a  mark.  And  the  next  moment  the  yellow- faced 
old  lawyer  was  at  his  elbow.  And  on  the  far  side 
of  the  room  I  could  hear  a  woman  crying. 

"Will  she  be  strong  enough  for  the  ordeal?"  tear- 
fully inquired  the  old  snipe. 

Doctor  Klinger  looked  concerned. 

"I'm  afraid  it  must  be  hurried.  As  you  see,  her 
strength  is  going!" 

"But  her  mind  is  quite  clear?" 

"Quite  clear,"  the  doctor  replied. 

"Your  mind  is  quite  clear?"  the  old  rascal  asked 
as  he  leaned  over  me.  "Quite  clear,  my  dear?" 

That  frog-chorus  struck  me  as  funny,  but  I  could 
feel  the  doctor's  grip  tighten  on  my  arm. 

"Clear  as  a  whistle!"  I  whispered  back — and  I 
had  to  chuckle  at  his  involuntary  wince.  It  was 
clearly  no  time  for  facetiousness,  his  face  said,  as 
plain  as  words. 

"Ah,  quite  clear!"  he  cooingly  reiterated  as  he 
backed  away  with  his  document.  "Then  I  shall  read 
what  you  dictated  to  me  day  before  yesterday.  And 
if  there  are  any  omissions,  or  any  corrections,  please 
make  a  sign  for  me  to  stop." 


138        THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

Then  he  sighed  and  wiped  his  eyes.  "Poor  child !" 
he  cooed  with  a  convulsive  movement  of  the  shoul- 
ders, plainly  intended  as  an  expression  of  inarticulate 
grief.  I  would  have  pinched  him,  I  know,  but  his 
leg  was  beyond  my  reach.  And  the  only  people  I 
felt  sorry  for  was  that  group  of  anxious-eyed  sheep 
at  the  far  end  of  the  room.  They  were,  I  knew, 
about  to  get  the  jolt  of  their  life.  They  were  going 
to  see  their  fondest  dreams  of  wealth  suddenly  go 
up  in  smoke.  And  all  this  intricate  byplay,  I 
remembered,  was  merely  to  impress  on  them  that 
the  smoke  was  genuine.  Not  one  of  them,  prob- 
ably, had  done  any  more  than  I  had  to  merit  that 
wealth.  But  the  shadow  of  seven  million  dollars 
is  a  far-reaching  one.  It  could,  I  reminded  myself, 
bring  ease  and  affluence  to  hundreds.  It  should 
have  poured  like  a  great  river  of  gold,  I  supposed, 
straight  out  to  those  hungry-eyed  ones.  But  that 
mighty  river  was  being  turned  from  its  course,  was 
being  diverted,  was  being  sent  sweeping  down  the 
other  side  of  a  great  divide.  And  Little  Me  in  my 
crepe-de-chine  nightie  was  the  instrument  that  was 
to  turn  aside  that  colossal  yellow  current,  by  a  mere 
scratch  of  the  pen.  It  was  no  wonder  I  began  to 
feel  rather  important. 

I  could  hear  old  Theobald  Scripps  clear  his  throat 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        139 

and  begin  to  speak.  Even  the  woman  who  had  been 
crying  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  suddenly  grew 
silent. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said  in  his  smooth 
and  oily  tones,  "all  this  is,  in  a  way,  somewhat 
irregular,  and  somewhat  outside  the  usual  proce- 
dure. But  as  you  know,  the  case  is  extraordinary. 
This  poor  child,  my  client,  has  not  long  to  be  with 
us.  But  as  the  sole  heir  and  possessor  of  the  Bart- 
lett  estate  the  solemn  duty  devolves  upon  her  of  dis- 
posing of  that  estate  as  she  sees  fit.  For  that  reason 
and  toward  that  end  I  was  two  days  ago  called  in 
to  prepare  this  last  will  and  testament  of  Clarissa 
Rhinelander  Bartlett.  And  you  have  been  called 
-together  to  witness  that  signature  and  to  testify  to 
the  regularity  of  the  procedure  in  even  its  minutest 
details.  Is  that  quite  clear  to  you  all?" 

Nobody  answered,  but  the  woman  at  the  far  end 
of  the  room  began  to  cry  again,  quite  audibly.  And 
old  Ezra  Bartlett  made  an  impatient  sign  for  the 
man  of  the  law  to  get  busy. 

"Now,  my  dear,  if  you  will  listen,"  the  old  law- 
yer said,  stepping  closer  to  my  side.  Then  he  looked 
over  the  rim  of  his  glasses  at  me.  "Can  you  hear 
me,  quite  clearly?" 

"Quite  clearly,"  I  whispered  back. 


140       THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

Then  he  began  to  read. 

"I,  Clarissa  Rhinelander  Bartlett,  of  the  City  of 
New  York,  State  of  New  York,  being  of  sound  and 
disposing  mind  and  memory,  do  make  and  publish 
this  my  last  will  and  testament,  hereby  revoking  all 
former  wills,  codicils  and  testamentary  disposition 
by  me  at  any  time  made. 

"Item  one:  I  hereby  direct  that  my  just  debts, 
together  with  all  expenses  resulting  from  my 
final  illness  and  funeral,  be  paid  as  expeditiously 
after  my  decease  as  may  be  convenient  for  my 
executors. 

"Item  two :  I  give,  devise  and  bequeath  to  my 
beloved  nurse,  Alicias  Ledwidge,  of  the  City  of  New 
York,  State  of  New  York,  as  a  token  of  my  esteem 
and  for  services  rendered,  the  sum  of  Five  Thou- 
sand Dollars,  to  be  free  of  all  taxes. 

"Item  three :  I  give,  devise  and  bequeath  to  my 
physician,  Doctor  Otto  Klinger,  as  a  slight  token  of 
his  untiring  and  unsparing  efforts  on  my  behalf,  the 
sum  of  Ten  Thousand  Dollars,  to  be  free  of  all 
taxes." 

At  this  precise  point,  I  ventured  a  loud  and  lugu- 
brious groan.  But  the  vise-like  clasp  on  my  arm 
tightened  threateningly,  and  the  flat-voiced  old  man 
of  law  went  on  with  his  reading. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        141 

"Item  four:  I  give,  devise  and  bequeath  all  the 
rest  and  residue,  and  remainder  of  my  estate  equally 
to  my  two  beloved  Uncles,  Ezra  Tweedie  Bartlett 
and  Enoch  Tweedie  Bartlett,  both  of  the  City  of 
New  York,  State  of  New  York,  the  same  to  be  had 
and  holden  by  them,  share  and  share  alike. 

"Item  five :  I  hereby  appoint  my  said  two  Uncles, 
Ezra  Tweedie  Bartlett  and  Enoch  Tweedie  Bart- 
lett, as  Executors  of  this,  my  last  will  and  testament, 
and  as  such  they  shall  have  final  and  absolute  dis- 
posal of  the  following  described  bonds,  mortgages 
and  securities,  to-wit : 

"$178,000  International  &  Great  Northern 
Railroad  second  Mortgage  five  per  cent.  Bonds. 

"$436,000  City  of  New  York  Gold  exempts 
three  and  one-half  per  cent.  Corporate  Stock. 

"$1,118,000  City  of  New  York  Gold  exempts 
three  and  one-half  per  cent,  assessment  Bonds 
of  Nov.  1st,  1916." 

I  lay  there  listening  to  the  singsong  voice  as  it 
read  on,  going  through  a  long  list  of  names  that 
sounded  like  the  Wall  Street  page  of  an  evening 
paper.  There  was  no  use  trying  to  follow  it.  The 
whole  thing  only  made  my  head  swim.  And  the 
bleats  of  grief  that  broke  from  the  sheep  at  the  far 


142        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

end  of  the  room  only  added  to  the  confusion.  I 
began  to  suspect  that  I  wasn't  going  to  be  troubled 
by  any  too  many  and  lingering  farewells. 

The  one  fact  that  targeted  straight  home  to  my 
brain,  however,  was  the  extent  of  the  estate  that 
snipe-nosed  old  lawyer  was  itemizing  there  as  he 
stood  beside  me. 

As  I  lay  there  with  half-closed  eyes  I  began  to 
wake  up  to  the  enormity  of  the  plot  into  which  I 
had  been  dragged.  It  began  to  dawn  on  me  that  I 
was  the  leading  lady  in  a  coup  that  involved  millions 
of  dollars.  I  no  longer  felt  vaguely  sorry  for  the 
girl  who  should  have  been  sleeping  in  that  bed,  who 
should  be  wearing  my  flimsy  garment  of  crepe-de- 
chine  and  directing  this  fortune,  which  must  have 
been  hers  for  so  short  a  while,  to  the  people  she 
cared  about,  to  the  friends  she  was  fond  of.  Her 
part  in  that  drama,  whatever  it  may  have  been,  was 
over  forever. 

But  as  I  lay  there  listening  to  that  yellow- faced 
old  lawyer  while  he  went  into  detailed  descriptions 
of  sundry  and  divers  blocks  of  stock  and  parcels  of 
real  estate,  there  was  a  rattle  from  that  inevitable 
chain  which  drags  at  every  one's  heels,  linking  them 
to  the  past.  And  with  that  rattle  an  idea  suddenly 
came  to  me.  It  seemed  to  start  at  the  base  of  my 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE  '     143 

brain,  and  scamper  up  to  the  top  like  a  run  in  a 
stocking.  If  I  was  the  instrument  that  was  so  airily 
tossing  three  and  a  half  millions  into  the  laps  of 
each  of  those  two  old  hypocrites  in  rusty  black,  why 
couldn't  I  just  as  easily  toss  a  quarter  of  a  million 
into  my  own  lap?  Why  couldn't  two  play  at  that 
game?  If  old  Ezra  Tweedie  Bartlett  was  to  wallow 
in  such  easy  money,  why  shouldn't  he  be  ready  to 
see  me  shave  a  paring  or  two  off  that  fat  cheese  of 
his?  Why,  since  they'd  squeezed  me  into  that 
menagerie,  practically  against  my  own  will,  couldn't 
I  set  up  a  little  howl  of  my  own? 

Then  I  saw  trouble  ahead.  I  saw  the  foolishness 
of  trying  to  will  a  quarter  of  a  million  to  Miss  Bad- 
die  Pretlow,  address  unknown,  occupation — well, 
unfortunately,  of  such  a  nature  that  it  would  not 
bear  too  much  official  inquiry.  The  thing  would 
have  been  easier,  I  remembered,  if  poor  old  Bud 
had  only  been  alive.  I  could  have  trusted  Bud.  And 
he  would  have  backed  up  my  claim  with  a  bunch  of 
affidavits  knee-high  to  the  Statue  of  Liberty.  He 
would  have  made  me  out  a  charity  worker  for  the 
Scrubwomen's  Reform  Association,  or  something 
quite  as  respectable,  and  marshaled  an  army  of  sol- 
emn-eyed witnesses  to  prove  it.  And  I  couldn't  help 
wondering,  as  I  lay  there,  if  this  was  the  sort  of 


144        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

four-poster  Bud  would  have  put  me  in,  if  those  fool- 
ish old  dreams  of  his  had  worked  out,  and  having 
stolen  about  half  the  crown  jewels  of  Western 
Europe,  he'd  retired  from  the  gentle  profession  of 
ice-gathering  and  lived  sedately  somewhere  on  the 
outskirts  of  Morristown  or  along  the  upper  fringe 
of  Brookline. 

I  came  to,  just  in  time  to  hear  the  droning  voice 
of  that  yellow- faced  old  lawyer  saying: 

.  .  .  "In  witness  whereof  I  have  hereunto  sub- 
scribed my  name  and  affixed  my  seal,  this  fifteenth 
day  of  September,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  one  thou- 
sand nine  hundred  and  sixteen." 

From  the  far  end  of  the  room  I  could  catch  the 
sound  of  half- whispering  voices,  as  angry  and 
resentful  as  the  hum  from  an  overturned  beehive. 
The  red- faced  woman  in  the  chair  was  even  snort- 
ing audibly  and  repeatedly.  And  the  dandified 
young  man  in  yellow  shoes  was  pacing  back  and 
forth  on  an  imported  and  priceless  prayer-rug  which 
he  doubtless  felt  ought  to  have  been  his. 

I  looked  up  and  craned  my  neck  a  little,  to  see 
how  the  enemy  was  accepting  those  demonstrations 
of  hostility.  Old  Ezra  Tweedie  Bartlett,  I  noticed, 
stood  blandly  blinking  into  space,  as  placid  and 
austere-eyed  as  an  undertaker.  That  other  old  win- 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        145 

ter-apple,  Enoch  Tweedie  Bartlett,  stood  there  quite 
as  serenely,  with  his  hand  cupped  behind  his  ear 
and  an  expression  of  patient  benevolence  on  his 
wrinkled  face.  And  the  snipe-nosed  old  lawyer  at 
the  bedside  seemed  equally  unconscious  of  his  sur- 
roundings, for,  having  quietly  motioned  Brother 
Enoch  to  advance  toward  the  bed,  he  proceeded  to 
take  out  a  gold  banded  fountain-pen,  fold  back  the 
document  which  he  held,  and  address  his  profes- 
sional attentions  to  me. 

"Is  that,  my  child,  exactly  as  you  wished?"  he 
solemnly  inquired. 

Ezra  and  Enoch  Bartlett  stood  on  one  side  of  the 
bed,  Doctor  Klinger  and  Theobald  Scripps  stood  on 
the  other.  At  the  footboard  was  posted  the  trained 
nurse. 

They  made  a  pretty  formidable-looking  guard  as 
they  stood  there,  intent  and  motionless,  fixing  me 
with  their  five  pairs  of  eyes.  But  I'd  had  a  second 
idea  suddenly  come  to  me.  And  I'd  decided  on  my 
next  move. 

"Yes,  of  course,  exactly  as  you  wished!"  some- 
what impatiently  purred  the  man  of  law,  stooping 
down  and  preparing  to  place  the  document  where  I 
could  sign  it. 

"No,  it's  not!"  I  said. 


146       THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

I  may  have  whispered  it,  but  I  said  it  with  deci- 
sion. And  I  could  feel  the  sudden  electric  stir  that 
crept  through  that  shadowy  room. 

"It's  not?"  mildly  challenged  Theobald  Scripps. 
He  straightened  up,  regarding  me  over  his  spectacle- 
rims,  with  pained  and  sorrowful  eyes.  Then  his 
look  of  melancholy  bewilderment  slowly  merged  into 
one  of  actual  animosity.  For  he  saw  that  he  couldn't 
stare  me  down. 

"No,"  I  whispered  up  to  him,  meeting  his  threat- 
ening eye  with  all  the  pertness  I  could  throw  into 
that  look.  "There's  another  item  that  I'd  like 
inserted." 

"But  this  is  most  irregular,"  cut  in  the  old  lawyer. 

"Is  this  my  will,  or  yours?"  I  calmly  whispered 
back  to  him. 

"Your  will,  of  course,  my  child,"  murmured  the 
old  scoundrel,  with  an  appealing  side-glance  at  old 
Ezra  Bartlett,  who'd  pressed  in  a  little  closer  to  the 
bedside. 

"And  it's  my  dying  request,"  I  whispered  up  to 
them.  I  could  see  old  Ezra's  jaw  clench.  He 
leaned  close  in  over  the  bed.  His  halo  of  silvery 
hair,  under  the  circumstances,  made  him  look  funny. 
For  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  an  uglier  face,  in  all 
my  life,  than  his  was  at  that  moment. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        147 

"Sign  that  will !"  he  whispered.  It  was  not  a  loud 
whisper.  But  it  vibrated  against  my  ear-drum  like 
the  hiss  of  a  snake. 

"Woof!  Woof!"  I  whispered  back.  For  I 
intended  to  show  him  that  he  couldn't  intimidate  me. 

"Sign  that  will!"  he  repeated. 

I  looked  him  square  in  the  eye. 

"Not  on  your  life!"  I  whispered  back. 

He  leaned  over  me  again.  His  hands  were  shak- 
ing, his  face  was  about  the  color  of  a  well-ripened 
camembert.  For  a  moment  I  thought  he  was  going 
to  fly  off  the  handle  and  Desdemona  the  life  out  of 
me  with  a  bed-pillow. 

It  was  the  calm-eyed  Miss  Ledwidge  who  gently 
but  firmly  drew  him  back. 

"Are  you  feeling  worse,  dear?"  she  said  out  loud, 
to  cover  the  maneuver.  "Is  it  tiring  you  too  much  ?" 
But  as  she  fussed  about  me  I  could  hear  her  whisper- 
ing to  the  three  old  crows  so  close  beside  her. 
"Don't  stop  things  now,  or  you  will  lose  every- 
thing!" 

I  could  see  those  three  old  conspirators  confer 
together,  eye  to  eye.  They  did  so  without  speaking 
a  word.  But  I  knew  that  a  silent  debate  was  taking 
place  there,  close  beside  me.  I  witnessed  the  word- 
less and  mysterious  giving  and  taking  of  messages, 


148       THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

the  clash  of  unspoken  question  and  answer,  the  final 
surrender  to  some  mute  argument  which  had  to  be 
faced.  It  was  like  a  stage-wait,  with  the  audience 
at  the  far  end  of  that  dimly-lighted  room  getting 
restless  to  understand  the  reason  for  it.  But  it  ended 
in  the  snipe-nosed  old  man  of  law  once  more  lean- 
ing solicitously  in  over  his  somewhat  triumphant- 
eyed  patient. 

"What  is  it,  my  dear,  you  are  asking  of  us?"  he 
inquired,  apparently  with  the  forbearance  of  a  long- 
suffering  man  being  tried  beyond  his  just  deserts. 

"Just  about  seven  per  cent,  as  a  commission  on 
the  deal !"  I  whispered  back.  I  said  it  quietly  enough 
to  carry  to  that  little  group  about  the  bedside,  but 
no  farther.  I  could  see  old  Enoch  Bartlett's  face 
working  in  the  vague  side-light.  The  expression  of 
that  face  made  me  grateful  for  the  pillar  of  Shef- 
field-plate that  reposed  on  that  bed  so  close  beside 
me. 

"So  please  add  item  six  to  that  will,"  I  whispered, 
in  a  slightly  louder  tone  than  before.  For  I  was 
beginning  to  lose  patience  with  that  circle  of  dyed- 
in-the-wool  hypocrites.  And  I  intended  to  show 
them  that  their  poor  little  half-wooled  ewe-lamb 
wasn't  the  thing  of  meekness  they  had  thought  her. 

"Now  what  is  it,  my  dear,  that  you  wish  insert- 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        149 

ed?"  inquired  Theobald  Scripps,  with  condoning 
wags  of  the  head.  And  he  stood  with  pen  poised,  as 
though  ready  for  dictation. 

I  gave  it  to  them,  straight  off  the  bat. 

"I  give  and  bequeath,"  I  whispered,  "give  and 
bequeath  to  Wendy  Gruger  Washburn,  of  the  City 
of  New  York,  State  of  New  York,  the  sum  of  Two 
Hundred  and  Fifty  Thousand  Dollars" — here  old 
Ezra  Bartlett  emitted  a  low  but  funereal  groan — 
"to  be  paid  to  him  in  cash  out  of  my  estate  prior  to 
all  other  claims" 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

IT  was  the  ring  that  had  made  me  think  of  Wendy 
Washburn.  I  remembered  that  he  had  been  gener- 
ous, once  before,  when  he  might  have  been  merely 
just.  He  had  helped  me  once  when  I  needed  help, 
when  to  all  intents  and  purposes  I  was  in  the  wrong. 
If  I  was  wrong  in  this  bigger  movement,  then  it 
was  up  to  my  Hero-Man  to  say  so,  but  I  intended 
to  snatch  at  my  chance,  while  that  chance  was  still 
before  me.  I  knew  there  were  risks,  but  I  had  no 
time  to  think  about  them.  I  merely  remembered 
that  it  was  useless  to  think  of  using  my  own  name. 
And  Wendy  Washburn' s  was  the  only  one  that  came 
to  me,  in  that  moment  of  emergency.  I  rather 
relished  the  thought,  in  fact,  of  calmly  willing  a 
quarter  of  a  million  to  a  man  I'd  only  talked  to  once 
in  my  life. 

What  he  would  do  with  that  quarter  of  a  million, 
I  did  not  even  attempt  to  answer.  I  was  given  no 
time  to  meditate  over  such  things  for  the  drama 
about  that  four-poster  was  too  quick-moving  to 
remain  long  neglected. 

Yet  I  saw,  once  I  had  dropped  my  bomb  in  their 
150 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        151 

midst,  a  change  come  over  that  little  company  of 
conspirators.  I  saw  the  silent  debate  resumed 
between  those  wary  and  guarded  figures.  But  it  was 
resumed  with  a  difference.  It  seemed  to  be  appre- 
hension which  I  now  saw  on  their  faces.  In  the  case 
of  the  two  old  uncles,  for  a  moment  or  two,  I  even 
imagined  I  could  read  fear  there.  With  Doctor 
Klinger  it  was  perplexity  touched  with  some 
frowning  suspicion  which  I  could  not  fathom. 
With  the  customarily  calm-eyed  Miss  Ledwidge 
it  was  open  and  involuntary  bewilderment  and 
I  was  foolish  enough,  at  the  time,  to  think  that 
I  had  overpowered  them  with  my  audacity.  But 
there  were  certain  things  which  I  was  destined  not 
to  find  out  until  later. 

"And  you  insist  on  this  change?"  the  yellow-faced 
old  lawyer  was  asking  me,  at  a  grim  nod  of  the  head 
from  Ezra  Bartlett.  I  imagined,  of  course,  that  the 
old  scoundrel  had  surrendered. 

"Yes,"  I  whispered  back,  as  he  looked  apprehen- 
sively over  his  shoulder,  for  the  scattered  group  at 
the  far  end  of  the  room  were  betraying  renewed 
signs  of  restiveness. 

Doctor  Klinger  and  the  nurse,  at  a  sign  from  Ezra 
Bartlett,  carried  a  small  table  to  the  bedside.  The 
old  lawyer  seated  himself  before  this  table.  Then 


152        THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

he  gazed  at  the  hangings  of  my  four-poster  with  an 
anxious  and  troubled  eye. 

"Will — er — will  this  be  overtaxing  the  strength 
of  our  patient?"  he  solemnly  asked,  with  his  head 
on  one  side,  and  a  smile  of  pained  sorrow  on  his 
wizened  old  face. 

"Don't  worry  about  me,"  I  whispered  back  to 
him,  "or  you'll  see  your  last  chance  slip  away  from 
you!" 

He  winced  at  that,  and  looked  apprehensively 
toward  the  group  at  the  end  of  the  room. 

"Oh,  yes;  our  last  chance — our  last  chance!"  he 
solemnly  repeated,  as  he  placed  the  document  on  the 
table,  smoothed  it  out  and  began  laboriously  penning 
the  new  lines  along  the  top  of  the  second  page. 
These  pages,  I  noticed,  were  tied  together  with  red 
tape,  held  in  place  by  the  seals.  You  could  have 
heard  a  pin  drop  in  that  room,  during  the  next  min- 
ute or  two.  Then  the  fountain-pen  began  to  scratch. 

"Will  you  read  what  you've  written?"  I  whis- 
pered, when  the  pen-scratching  came  to  an  end. 

"I  give  and  bequeath  to  Wendy  Gruger  Wash- 
burn,  of  the  City  of  New  York,  State  of  New  York, 
Two  Hundred  and  Fifty  Thousand  Dollars,  to  be 
paid  in  cash  out  of  my  estate  prior  to  all  other 
claims." 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        153 

Something  about  his  manner  of  reading  those 
words  made  me  distrust  him,  notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  on  this  occasion  Enoch  Bartlett  gave  vent 
to  his  feelings  in  a  groan  that  was  both  soul-stirring 
and  prolonged. 

"Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  let  me  see  that  amend- 
ment?" I  whispered,  looking  him  straight  in  the 
face. 

Instead  of  looking  back  at  me,  his  watery  eye 
sought  out  the  eye  of  Ezra  Bartlett.  The  old  wea- 
sel's face  became  even  more  malignant  than  before. 
I  saw  him  make  a  sudden  sign  to  Doctor  Klinger. 
I  had  no  way  of  knowing  what  that  sign  meant. 
But  I  reached  down  under  my  crested  sheet  and 
took  firmly  hold  of  the  Sheffield-plate  candlestick 
there  reposing.  It's  the  way  a  gun-man,  I  suppose, 
reaches  for  his  automatic,  when  he  sees  danger 
around  the  next  turn.  And,  I  decided,  one  might 
just  as  well  be  hanged  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb. 

Whatever  movement  Doctor  Klinger  may  have 
intended  to  carry  out  was  interrupted,  however,  by 
the  sound  of  a  quick  and  angry  voice  outside  the 
bedroom  door.  This  was  followed  by  other  sounds, 
unmistakably  those  of  physical  combat.  Somebody, 
I  promptly  realized,  was  trying  to  enter  that  room, 
was  determined  to  enter  that  room.  And  somebody 


154       THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

else    seemed   equally   determined   to   prevent    that 
entrance. 

But  the  combat  must  have  been  a  brief  one,  for  a 
moment  later  the  door  was  flung  open,  followed  by 
the  undignified  catapulting  into  the  room  of  the 
butler  in  the  crimson-rambler  apparel.  The  cause 
of  that  unceremonious  entrance  followed  close 
behind.  I  could  make  out  the  burly  shoulders  of  a 
very  irate  young  man  in  a  check  tweed  suit  which 
fitted  him  as  though  he  had  been  melted  and  poured 
into  it.  I  could  also  see,  even  in  that  uncertain 
light,  that  he  wore  a  necktie  as  bright  in  hue  as  the 
crimson-rambler  knickerbockers  which  he  had  so 
recently  outraged.  But  before  I  could  preen  about 
for  a  better  view  of  him  he  strode  in  across  the  room 
and  elbowed  both  Ezra  Bartlett  and  Theobald 
Scripps  from  their  places  beside  that  four-poster. 

"Where's  Claire?"  he  peremptorily  and  some- 
what breathlessly  demanded. 

It  was  plain  that  he  was  a  stranger  to  them  all. 
But  he  was  no  stranger  to  me,  from  the  moment  I 
first  heard  that  rich  brogue.  I  knew  it  was  Pinky 
McClone  speaking.  And  the  mystery  of  Pinky 
McClone's  presence  in  that  house  brought  me  sitting 
straight  up  between  my  crested  sheets. 

"Where's  Claire?"  he  repeated,  in  a  voice  which 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE        155 

Vvas  clearly  a  Celtic  challenge  to  any  one  who  cared 
openly  to  deny  him  that  information. 

"Who  are  you?"  piped  out  old  Enoch  Bartlett, 
in  a  voice  shrill  with  resentment. 

Pinky  squared  about  on  him.  And  I  must  admit 
that  he  looked  magnificent,  that  youthful  ex-river 
pirate  with  the  fire  of  Irish  anger  in  his  sky-blue 
eye.  But  it  was  Doctor  Klinger  who  next  advanced 
to  the  charge. 

"What  do  you  want  here?"  inquired  the  man  of 
medicine  as  he  rounded  the  bed. 

"I  want  the  woman  I'm  going  to  marry,"  sten- 
toriously  announced  Pinky  McClone,  "the  woman 
you're  all  trying  to  keep  away  from  me !" 

The  three  old  men  by  this  time  were  trying  to 
edge  in  between  Pinky  and  me.  But  with  one  sweep 
of  his  life-guard  arm  he  sent  that  frail-legged  trio 
scattering.  Then  he  flung  back  the  curtains  that 
screened  me  from  the  vulgar  world. 

I  blinked  at  him,  with  my  face  twisted  up,  for  it 
might  be  painful,  I  remembered,  to  have  Pinky 
recognize  me. 

Thanks  to  the  uncertain  light  and  my  tombstone 
make-up  he  showed  no  promise  of  any  such  intelli- 
gence. Disgust,  in  fact,  was  about  all  I  could  see 
on  his  weather  bronzed  face. 


156        THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

"This  isn't  my  Claire!"  he  announced,  with  a 
heavy  frown  of  perplexity. 

"Of  course  it  isn't  your  Claire!"  old  Enoch  Bart- 
lett  piped  out,  as  he  kept  dancing  excitedly  about 
close  behind  the  massive  intruder.  On  Miss  Led- 
widge's  face,  as  she  stared  at  this  intruder,  I  saw 
genuine  alarm.  She  edged  away,  slow  step  by  step, 
until  she  rounded  the  bed.  Then  she  slipped  quietly 
out  through  the  inner  door. 

"Who  let  this  madman  in  here?"  Ezra  Bartlett 
shrilly  and  angrily  demanded.  "Where  are  those 
fools  of  servants?  Why  doesn't  somebody  get  a 
policeman  ?" 

But  Pinky  McClone  was  in  no  way  disturbed  by 
these  thin-noted  challenges.  He  strode  across  the 
room,  stopped  at  the  still  open  door  and  swung 
about. 

"Don't  think  you  can  get  away  with  it,  you  purse- 
proud  bunch  of  snobs,"  he  bellowed  out.  "You  may 
keep  me  away  from  her  to-day,  but  you  won't  be 
doing  it  to-morrow.  And  mark  my  words  on  that !" 

And  having  delivered  himself  of  that  enigmatic 
message,  he  turned  about  and  walked  majestically 
out  through  the  door,  slamming  it  after  him. 

This  inflammatory  interruption,  apparently,  was 
too  much  for  the  sheep  who  had  been  kept  herded 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        157 

so  long  at  the  far  end  of  the  room.  As  they  surged 
excitedly  forward  Doctor  Klinger  forced  me  bodily 
and  none  too  gently  down  between  my  coverings. 

"This  can't  possibly  go  on,"  he  said  over  his 
shoulder,  as  he  held  me  there.  "I  can't  allow  it. 
It  may  prove  fatal,  at  any  moment.  It's — it's  over- 
taxing the  poor  girl's  strength !" 

He  stooped  close  over  me,  with  a  good  grip  on 
my  arm,  for  he  seemed  to  be  uncertain  as  to  just 
what  my  next  movement  might  be.  He  even 
screened  me  from  those  peering  eyes  by  stooping 
still  lower,  making  a  pretense  of  listening  to  my 
heart.  As  he  did  so  I  quietly  tickled  a  flap  of  his 
dewy  chin  with  the  lacy  edge  of  my  pillow-slip. 
And  for  this  he  tightened  his  grip  on  my  arm  until 
I  squirmed.  I  was,  in  fact,  just  getting  ready  to 
use  my  lungs.  And  he  must  have  anticipated  that 
action  on  my  part,  for  the  next  moment  he  shut  off 
my  gathering  hoot  by  placing  one  of  his  big  hands 
squarely  over  my  mouth.  And  with  his  other  hand 
he  still  held  me  like  a  vise.  And  that  was  more 
than  I  intended  to  endure.  At  that,  in  fact,  I 
simply  blew  up. 

"Ah,  convulsions !"  he  said  in  a  muffled  voice,  as 
I  began  to  struggle  with  all  my  strength.  "Con- 
vulsions again !  This  is  grave,  very  grave !" 


158       THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

There  was  an  uneasy  stir  about  the  room,  but  I 
paid  small  attention  to  that,  for  I  had  more  serious 
things  to  think  of. 

I  began  to  have  a  convulsion  of  the  real  sort, 
just  about  that  time,  for  my  big  doctor  had  taken  a 
hypodermic  from  his  pocket  and  was  doing  his  best 
to  get  the  business-end  of  it  somewhere  into  the 
fleshy  part  of  my  shoulder.  And  I  didn't  intend  to 
stand  for  any  needle-pumping.  I  began  to  fight  in 
earnest  then,  to  fight  like  a  wild-cat. 

"This  looks  bad,  very  bad !"  I  could  hear  him  say 
in  a  somewhat  strangled  voice,  for  it  was  taking 
about  all  his  strength  to  hold  me  down  and  at  the 
same  time  keep  one  fat  hand  over  my  mouth.  And 
while  he  was  doing  this,  since  he  insisted  on  thrust- 
ing that  gross  thumb  of  his  against  my  mouth,  I 
closed  my  teeth  on  it.  And  I  didn't  make  it  a  half- 
hearted bite,  either.  It  at  least  showed  him  that  I 
was  in  fighting  form.  For  I  could  hear  him  sud- 
denly gasp  to  the  others  close  behind  him. 

"For  God's  sake  get  these  people  away !  Get  'em 
out  of  here  before  something  happens !" 

I  could  hear  Ezra  Bartlett's  thin-voiced  com- 
mands to  clear  the  room. 

There  was  a  scuffling  of  feet  and  a  movement  to- 
ward the  door.  But  I  scarcely  knew  when  that 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        159 

motley  throng  had  been  herded  out,  for  about  that 
time  I  was  having  troubles  of  my  own.  Both  Ezra 
and  Enoch  Bartlett  had  come  to  Doctor  Klinger's 
help  and  were  doing  their  best  to  hold  me  down. 
They  weren't,  however,  having  things  all  their  own 
way.  I'd  broken  the  point  off  the  hypodermic 
needle,  and  as  these  two  old  derelicts  pawed  and 
wheezed  about  me  I  managed  to  butt  Ezra  in  the 
midriff.  This  bowled  him  over  against  the  writing- 
table  and  sent  both  full  length  on  the  floor. 

Then  I  started  to  show  Brother  Enoch  and  that 
fat-faced  doctor  just  what  I  could  do  in  the  ju-jutsu 
line.  Once  I'd  squirmed  out  of  their  clutch,  I  knew 
I  could  make  things  interesting  with  that  Sheffield- 
plate  candlestick  of  mine. 

Things  were  made  interesting,  however,  by  quite 
another  event.  It  was  the  hurried  and  unexpected 
appearance  of  Miss  Ledwidge  on  the  scene.  She 
ran  into  the  room  with  her  eyes  wide  and  her  breath 
coming  in  stifled  little  jerks. 

"What  is  it  this  time?"  piped  old  Ezra,  once  more 
on  his  feet. 

"The  body's  gone!"  she  gasped,  as  she  sank 
weakly  into  a  chair. 

Doctor  Klinger  turned  slowly  about.  His  hand 
was  still  on  my  arm,  but  the  tension  of  his  fingers 


160        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

relaxed,  and  his  lower  jaw  fell  away,  as  you  may 
have  seen  the  jaw  of  a  dead  man  fall. 

"Gone?"  he  echoed,  staring  at  the  white- faced 
nurse. 

"The  body's  gone !"  she  repeated,  with  a  hopeless 
little  moan  that  might  have  meant  anything. 

"It's  gone?"  tremulously  queried  the  old  weasel, 
slowly  retreating  toward  the  overturned  table. 
"Gone  where?" 

"Gone  from  where  I  carried  it !  Gone  from  this 
house,"  was  the  somewhat  startling  answer. 

The  three  men,  the  big  fat  one  and  the  two  shriv- 
eled up  little  ones,  stood  regarding  one  another  in  a 
sort  of  awed  and  heavy  silence.  Then,  still  without 
speaking,  they  turned  and  followed  the  uniformed 
woman  out  through  the  door,  stunned,  apparently, 
by  being  asked  to  believe  the  unbelievable. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

THE  moment  the  room  was  clear  of  that  preoc- 
cupied quartet  I  saw  my  chance.     It  may 
not  have  been  much  of  a  chance,  but  I  didn't  intend 
to  miss  it. 

I  was  out  of  that  bed,  in  one  jump.  I  ran  to  the 
still  open  hall  door,  to  close  and  lock  it,  for  I  was 
figuring  on  at  least  a  flying  start.  Before  I  locked 
that  door,  however,  I  stepped  out  into  the  hall  in  my 
stocking  feet.  The  place  was  as  still  as  a  grave. 
Then  something  which  I  could  not  define  caused  me 
to  stare  upward. 

High  above  I  saw  a  woman's  face,  white  as  a 
tombstone,  leaning  over  the  stair-railing.  It  was 
a  young  face,  but  a  troubled  one.  I  knew,  even  in 
that  uncertain  light,  that  it  was  a  face  which  I  had 
never  seen  before.  It  was  so  thin  and  colorless  that 
I  could  feel  a  stirring  somewhere  about  the  roots  of 
my  hair. 

For  one  brief  moment  it  stared  wistfully  down  at 
me,  and  then  it  disappeared  from  sight.  I  decided, 
as  I  backed  hurriedly  away  into  my  bedroom,  not  to 
go  up  those  stairs  if  I  could  help  it. 

161 


162        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

I  promptly  swung  the  (door  shut  and  locked  it. 
The  first  thing  I  needed,  I  remembered,  was  clothes. 
And  the  next  was  open  air,  for  I'd  had  about  enough 
of  that  house  of  mysteries. 

I  made  for  the  bathroom,  remembering  the  pas- 
sageway lined  with  clothes-presses  somewhere  on 
the  other  side  of  it.  Those  presses,  I  decided,  ought 
to  show  up  something  better  than  a  crepe-de-chine 
nightgown  for  street  wear. 

I  was,  of  course,  still  in  my  stocking  feet,  so  that 
my  flight  through  the  bathroom  was  noiseless.  I 
closed  and  locked  its  door  behind  me,  to  ward  off 
any  surprises  from  the  rear.  Then  I  crept  on  to  the 
next  door,  opening  it  as  quietly  as  I  could. 

Then  I  stood  stock-still.  For  I  found  myself 
confronted  by  something  which,  for  a  minute  or 
two,  I  could  not  quite  comprehend. 

Every  light  in  that  room  with  its  massive  furni- 
ture and  its  sumptuous  yellow  brocade  was  on  full. 
But  that  was  not  the  cause  of  my  consternation,  for 
on  the  far  side  of  the  room,  directly  under  the  added 
glow  of  a  wall-light,  I  saw  a  woman  in  black,  with  a 
black  hat,  and  a  black  veil  rolled  up  around  its  brim. 
Beside  her,  on  her  left,  stood  a  black  leather  club- 
bag.  On  her  right,  on  the  rug  where  she  knelt,  lay 
an  ugly-looking  blue-barreled  automatic. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        163 

But  she  was  directly  interested  in  neither  of  these 
things,  at  the  moment.  For  before  her  stood  the 
open  door  of  a  wall-safe,  and  the  woman  was  in- 
tently engaged  in  investigating  the  contents  of  this 
safe. 

There  was  something  so  businesslike  about  her 
movements  that  for  a  moment  I  thought  she  must 
be  some  official  from  an  appraiser's  office  making 
out  a  list  of  the  assets  of  the  Bartlett  estate.  Yet 
as  I  stood  there  watching  her  I  noticed  that  she  kept 
dropping  neatly  banded  papers  into  the  club-bag 
beside  her.  Then  came  a  drawer ful  of  jewelry, 
stones  of  many  colors,  some  in  cases,  some  loose  in 
the  drawer,  a  string  of  pearls  in  a  square  of  black 
velvet,  a  long  and  slender  chained  lavaliere  wound 
about  a  pad  of  soft  buckskin,  and  a  diamond  sun- 
burst in  a  little  holder  that  looked  like  a  chamois 
boodle-bag. 

And  all  this  loot,  I  saw  as  I  stood  there,  was  being 
dropped  promptly  and  calmly  into  the  open  leather 
bag  on  the  rug-end. 

I  didn't  like  the  look  of  that  woman  and  I  didn't 
like  the  look  of  that  automatic.  But  I  had  no  time 
for  taking  chances. 

I  tiptoed  silently  across  the  room  until  I  stood 
close  behind  the  figure  so  intently  stooping  over  a 


164        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

safe-drawer.  I  waited  until  she  leaned  forward  to 
investigate  the  next  compartment  of  that  safe. 
Then  I  stooped  and  let  my  hand  slip  out  to  that 
automatic. 

I  felt  better,  once  that  gun  was  in  my  hand.  It 
had  a  candlestick  beaten  seven  ways  for  Sunday. 
And  it  was  loaded  with  a  full  clip  of  cartridges. 

The  woman  in  front  of  the  safe  went  serenely 
on  with  her  work.  Then  she  snapped  the  club-bag 
shut,  sighed  audibly  and  brushed  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  together,  as  though  knocking  dust  from 
them.  I  could  see  her  carefully  wipe  the  metal 
handles  and  the  japanned  surfaces  of  the  drawer- 
fronts.  This  I  knew  was  to  brush  away  any  tell- 
tale finger  prints.  Then  she  looked  down  to  the  rug 
on  her  right.  I  could  see  her  frown  of  perplexity. 
She  felt  along  the  knee  of  her  lisle-thread  stocking, 
still  frowning.  And  in  the  meantime  I  balanced 
the  automatic  in  my  hand  and  trained  the  barrel 
directly  at  the  back  of  her  head.  Then  I  felt  that 
my  moment  had  come. 

"Stand  up !"  I  called  out  sharply. 

She  came  to  her  feet,  with  a  jump  like  a  jack-in- 
the-box  released  on  its  spring.  And  as  she  rose  she 
also  twisted  about,  so  that  we  stood  face  to  face. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        165 

It  was  my  turn  to  gasp.  For  the  woman  I  stood 
staring  at  was  Copperhead  Kate  herself. 

"So  you're  sloughin'  this  beat  too!"  she  said, 
before  I  had  time  to  speak.  There  was  something 
more  than  audacity  on  her  face.  It  was  more  than 
antagonism;  it  was  hatred.  So  I  made  it  a  point 
to  keep  the  automatic  still  leveled  in  her  direction. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  ?"  I  demanded,  with  a 
hand-wave  toward  the  club-bag  on  the  rug-end. 

She  laughed  a  hard  and  reckless  laugh. 

"Playing  about  the  same  game  that  you're  trying 
to  play,"  was  her  brazen  retort  as  she  viewed  me 
and  my  flimsy  apparel.  "But  still  sleeping  home !" 

I  didn't  worry  over  her  one-sided  smile,  for  I 
never  did  possess  one  of  those  three-ring  brains 
that  could  all  keep  busy  at  the  same  time.  And  I 
had  considerable  thinking  to  do  at  that  particular 
moment. 

"Well,  I  guess  you  can  get  ready  to  play  my  game 
for  a  little  while,"  I  told  her  quite  casually.  But  I 
kept  the  gun  where  it  was.  I  had  reason  enough 
for  hating  that  woman.  I  couldn't  help  hating  her. 
And  this  was  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  didn't  have 
to  play  second  fiddle  to  her. 

"What    game?"    she    demanded.     Her    smoky 


166       THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

green  eyes  were  staring  at  me  sharply  enough  by 
this  time. 

"This  sleeping  sickness  game,"  I  retorted.  "For 
I've  had  about  my  fill  of  it !" 

"What  d'you  mean?"  she  asked,  studying  my 
face  and  plainly  showing  she  didn't  like  the  look 
of  it. 

"I  mean  you've  got  to  take  off  that  hat  and  dress," 
I  told  her  without  a  quaver. 

"When?" 

"Right  away/' 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  need  'em  in  my  business.  So  peel  off, 
Katie,  before  the  ugly  side  of  my  disposition  gets  to 
shooting  off  its  fire-works." 

"You're  kiddin' !"  protested  Copperhead  Kate, 
backing  away  a  little. 

I  was  right  beside  her  in  a  jiffy  and  I  had  the 
gun-barrel  close  up  between  two  of  her  corset- 
steels. 

"You  get  off  that  dress !"  I  told  her,  and  I  said  it 
as  though  I  meant  it.  She  stared  into  my  face  for 
several  seconds.  Then  she  looked  sidewise  at  the 
club-bag. 

"How  about  that  ?"  she  had  the  nerve  to  ask,  with 
a  movement  toward  her  bagful  of  loot. 


THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        167 

It  was  my  turn  at  bat ;  and  I  let  her  know  it. 

"That's  not  what  you're  here  to  worry  about. 
Your  present  trouble  is  whether  you  take  that  dress 
off  while  you're  still  warm  or  I  take  it  off  before 
you  get  cold !" 

Once  more  she  gave  me  the  benefit  of  her  studious 
green  eyes. 

"Then  you  get  that  gun  away  from  my  ribs,"  she 
said,  for  I  had  made  my  stare  quite  as  belligerent  as 
her  own.  And  I  had  the  hardware  to  back  it  up. 

"Not  on  your  life,"  I  told  her.  But  I  let  her 
back  away  a  foot  or  two. 

"And  then  what've  I  got  to  do?"  she  asked,  as 
she  took  out  her  hat-pins  and  tossed  the  hat  into  a 
yellow  brocaded  chair  beside  her. 

"You're  going  to  put  on  this  nice  silk  nightie  and 
go  to  bed,"  I  told  her. 

"To  bed?" 

"Yes,  to  bed." 

"Where?"  she  demanded,  with  a  blink  of  incre- 
dulity. 

"In  the  swellest  bedroom,"  I  retorted,  "that  you 
ever  stretched  out  in." 

I  wasn't  sorry  to  see  that  she  was  beginning  to 
unpeel. 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  stretch  out  in  any  bed," 


she  protested  with  vigor.  But  she  flung  her  black 
waist  down  beside  the  black  hat  on  the  chair. 

I  was  outside  of  my  flesh-colored  nightie  in  one 
wriggle.  And  the  next  minute  I  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  beholding  Copperhead  Kate  step  sullenly 
out  of  her  skirt. 

It  surprised  me  a  little,  to  see  her  fall  into  line 
that  easy.  But  I  had  no  time  to  ask  questions.  I 
wanted  to  get  away  from  that  house,  and  get  away 
in  a  hurry. 

"Now  climb  into  this  night-dress,"  I  commanded 
as  I  pounced  on  that  precious  pile  of  clothing  and 
backed  away  until  two-thirds  of  the  room  stood  be- 
tween us.  For  it's  no  easy  thing  to  get  into  a  skirt 
and  handle  an  automatic  at  the  same  time. 

But  neither  of  us  spoke  until  the  last  snap  was 
done  up.  And  a  big  wave  of  confidence  came  back 
to  me  as  I  felt  that  apparel  once  more  about  me, 
whether  it  fitted  or  not.  It  left  me  almost  light- 
hearted. 

"Now  come  and  go  by-by!"  was  my  triumphant 
command  to  Copperhead  Kate,  as  I  backed  away 
toward  the  door  and  unlocked  it.  But  every  mo- 
ment of  the  time  I  kept  my  eye  on  that  green-eyed 
lady  with  the  undulatory  body  movements. 

"You'll  pay  for  this,"  she  said  very  quietly,  as  I 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        169 

listened  at  the  bathroom  door  for  a  moment  before 
turning  the  key  in  the  lock. 

"I  have  paid  for  it!"  I  announced,  ignoring  the 
venom  in  her  voice.  For  I  had  too  many  troubles, 
just  then,  to  give  much  time  to  that  green-eyed  gun- 
moll's  foolish  threats. 

The  big  rose  and  gold  bedroom,  I  noticed  as  I 
stepped  guardedly  into  it,  was  still  empty.  So  I 
ushered  the  sullen-eyed  and  languid-moving  lady  in 
the  crepe-de-chine  night-dress  into  its  splendors. 

She  looked  the  room  over  with  a  hostile  eye. 
Then  she  turned  to  me,  frowning  with  perplexity. 

"What  are  you  trying  to  steer  me  into,  anyway  ?" 
she  demanded,  as  I  pointed  silently  but  meaningly 
toward  the  big  four-poster.  But  she  betrayed  no 
immediate  intention  of  climbing  in  between  those 
crested  sheets. 

"Listen  to  me,"  I  said,  "for  my  time  is  short." 

"So  are  your  manners!"  promptly  remarked  my 
unwilling  captive. 

"Well,  they  may  get  worse,  if  they're  tried  too 
hard,"  I  warned  her,  with  a  show  of  anger.  "But 
if  you're  wise  you'll  climb  into  that  bed  without  too 
much  back-talk !" 

"I  prefer  staying  out  of  it,"  was  her  sullen  retort. 

"But  I  say  you're  going  to  get  in  it !" 


170        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"Why?" 

"Because  it's  your  only  chance  of  a  get-away,"  I 
tried  to  explain  to  her. 

"One  grand  little  way  of  hitting  the  pike,  isn't 
it,"  she  mocked,  "going  to  bed  and  dreaming  you're 
on  a  boat  for  Europe  ?" 

"But  I  want  you  in  that  bed !" 

"And  how  do  I  know  what's  going  to  walk  in  on 
me?"  demanded  that  suspicious-minded  visitor. 
But  I  knew  from  that  question  that  she  was  begin- 
ning to  give  in. 

"Nothing  will  walk  in  on  you,"  I  tried  to  assure 
her.  "There's  a  sick  woman  supposed  to  be  in  that 
bed,  and  .  .  ." 

"Well,  that  must  be  me,"  she  cut  in,  "for  this 
whole  business  makes  me  good  and  sick !" 

"But  if  you  throw  the  bluff  of  being  asleep  you 
can  stay  there  until  morning,  if  you  want  to,  or  at 
least  until  your  chance  of  a  get-away  shows  up." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"That's  my  own  business,"  I  promptly  told  her, 
for  I  could  see  that  we  were  only  wasting  precious 
time. 

She  suddenly  started  to  laugh  as  she  stared  across 
the  room  at  me.  But  that  laugh  of  hers  was  about 
as  warm  as  Christmas  snow  on  a  convent  roof. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        171 

"I  guess  you  didn't  cruise  with  old  Bud  Griswold 
without  learning  a  few  of  his  lush-dip  tricks!"  she 
said  with  a  shrug  that  was  meant  to  be  insulting. 

"You  needn't  drag  a  dead  man  into  this,"  I  told 
her,  and  my  voice  shook  a  little  as  I  said  it. 

"A  dead  man?"  she  echoed,  staring  at  me  with 
half  closed  eyes.  Then  she  laughed  again,  remem- 
bering, I  suppose,  that  I  could  never  quite  forget 
what  had  caused  that  death. 

I  could  see  that  she  was  about  to  speak  again,  but 
she  froze  into  sudden  silence,  arrested  by  the  dis- 
turbing discovery  that  some  one  from  the  outside 
had  plainly  tried  to  open  the  door  that  led  to  the  hall. 
I  could  see  her  green  eyes  fixed  meditatively  on  the 
turning  door-knob.  But  I  didn't  wait  for  more.  I 
didn't  wait  to  see  if  she  unlocked  that  door,  or  if  she 
got  into  the  four-poster,  or  if  she  began  to  claw  the 
tapestry  from  the  walls.  I  retreated,  when  the  way 
for  retreat  was  still  open.  I  slipped  back  into  the 
bathroom,  swung  the  door  shut  and  locked  it.  Then 
I  made  for  the  next  door,  and  repeated  the  oper- 
ation. 

When  I  got  to  the  room  done  in  yellow  brocade, 
I  crossed  to  the  still  open  wall-safe,  swung  shut  the 
door,  and  also  the  panel  of  carved  mahogany  that 
screened  the  metal  safe- front. 


172        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

The  club-bag  was  still  there.  I  paused  long 
enough  to  open  it  and  make  sure  that  it  still  held 
Copperhead  Kate's  haul.  Then  I  caught  it  up  and 
made  for  the  next  room.  I  stopped  only  long 
enough  in  the  passageway  to  swing  open  one  of  the 
press  doors,  snatch  up  a  pair  of  suede  slippers  that 
stood  there,  and  stick  a  foot  into  one  of  them  to 
make  sure  they  would  fit.  Then  I  tucked  them 
away  under  my  arm,  for  I  knew  better  than  to  wear 
shoes  during  my  transit  over  those  polished  hard- 
wood floors.  I  wanted  my  advance  to  be  a  silent 
one,  for  heaven  alone  knew  what  I  might  bump  into 
before  I  got  down  to  the  street-entrance  once  more. 

As  I  made  my  way  on  through  those  heavily  fur- 
nished rooms,  however,  I  found  them  empty. 
When  I  crept  out  to  the  hall,  too,  I  was  confronted 
by  nothing  but  solitude.  I  didn't  altogether  like  the 
sudden  silence  that  had  fallen  over  that  house.  It 
seemed  ominous.  I  didn't  like  it  any  more  than  I 
liked  the  thought  of  that  ghostly  face  which  had 
stared  down  over  the  stair-railing  at  me.  I  had 
always  prided  myself  on  being  a  good,  hard-headed, 
matter-of-fact,  practical-minded  girl.  I  was  never 
strong  on  the  spook  stuff,  as  Bud  had  once  acknowl- 
edged. But  there  were  too  many  mysteries  under 
that  roof  to  keep  me  there  any  longer  than  I  could 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        173 

help.  I  wanted  to  get  where  you  could  hear  the 
rattle  of  a  surface  car  and  see  decent  every-day  cit- 
izens go  about  on  their  decent  every-day  business. 

So,  with  my  suede  shoes  still  under  my  arm,  I 
stole  along  the  stair-head,  stopping  every  moment  to 
listen  and  look  back. 

Then,  tread  by  polished  tread,  I  went  down  the 
flight  of  steps  that  lay  before  me,  with  the  bag  in 
my  hand  and  my  heart  in  my  mouth. 

But  still  I  didn't  see  a  sign  of  life.  There  wasn't 
a  trace  of  house-maid,  or  footman,  or  butler  in  crim- 
son-rambler get-up.  It  was  like  going  down  through 
the  catacombs.  And  I  realized,  as  I  started  on 
again,  that  I  still  had  another  flight  of  stairs  to  go 
down  before  I  was  on  the  street-level.  It  was  a  big 
house.  And  it  may  have  been  fitted  up  like  a  ducal 
palace  with  bells  on.  But  I'd  had  all  I  wanted  of  it. 

I  got  down  the  second  flight  of  stairs,  and  was  in 
what  must  have  been  a  sort  of  reception-hall,  when 
the  first  sound  of  life  in  all  that  descent  came  to  my 
ears.  Toward  the  front  of  this  hall  were  heavy 
double  doors  of  plate  glass  backed  by  panel  curtains 
and  grilled  by  scroll-work  of  wrought  iron.  And 
somebody  was  plainly  coming  in  through  those 
doors,  from  the  street,  with  a  pass-key. 

I  didn't  wait  to  see  who  that  visitor  might  be.     I 


174        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

made  an  Annette  Kellerman  dive  through  a  nar- 
rower door  on  my  right,  into  what  proved  to  be  a 
cloak-room.  I  swung  the  door  shut  after  me,  and 
didn't  even  dare  to  look  out.  But  I  could  hear  the 
steps  hurry  by,  loud  on  the  hardwood  floor  and  soft 
on  the  rugs. 

I  knew  it  was  a  man  who  had  come  in,  and  come 
in  in  a  hurry.  So  while  I  waited  there  until  the 
house  was  quiet  again,  an  idea  came  to  me,  and  I 
began  to  explore  that  cloak-room.  I  did  it  entirely 
by  the  sense  of  touch.  I  felt  and  padded  about 
amongst  the  clothing  hanging  there  until  I  discov- 
ered a  fur  coat  of  Hudson  seal.  I  took  it  down  and 
tried  it  on.  It  at  least  fitted  a  little  better  than  did 
Copperhead  Kate's  black  skirt.  And  a  box  coat  of 
Hudson  seal,  I  told  myself,  could  cover  a  multitude 
of  sins.  So  I  put  on  the  suede  shoes,  took  up  my 
bag,  and  crept  out  into  the  hall.  There  was  nothing 
in  sight,  and  not  a  sound  to  be  heard. 

I  tried  to  move  without  noise,  but  my  heart  was 
once  more  in  my  throat  as  I  slipped  out  to  the  street 
door,  opened  it,  and  once  more  felt  the  fresh  air  on 
my  face. 

It  was  so  uncommonly  good  to  feel  that  I  scarcely 
noticed  the  fact  that  a  fine  rain  was  falling.  For 
as  I  swung  that  grilled  door  softly  shut  behind  me  I 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE        175 

knew  that  I  was  back  in  the  world  of  realities,  back 
in  the  land  of  sane  and  sensible  people  engaged  on 
their  sane  and  sensible  ends.  It  seemed  like  emerg- 
ing from  a  nightmare,  a  distorted  and  tangled  night- 
mare of  wizened  old  misers  and  white-faced  ghosts 
and  missing  bodies  and  ravished  wall-safes  and  yel- 
low-faced lawyers  with  undulating  Adam's  apples. 

Yet  I  stood  there  for  a  minute  or  two  on  the 
house  steps,  making  sure  that  the  coast  was  clear. 
Then  I  carefully  stowed  Copperhead  Kate's  blue- 
barreled  automatic  in  the  over-ample  bosom  of  her 
black  waist,  where  it  promptly  seemed  to  hang  like  a 
mill-stone  about  my  neck.  I  still  wanted  that  gun 
where  I  could  get  at  it,  however,  for  I  had  not  for- 
gotten what  I  had  overheard  as  to  the  possibilities 
of  a  certain  Cacciata  and  his  persuasive  sand-bag. 

But  there  was  plainly  no  Cacciata  in  sight,  so  I 
took  a  deep  breath,  dropped  the  veil  about  my  hat- 
rim,  and  started  down  the  wide  stone  steps. 

I  reached  the  sidewalk  and  turned  eastward.  I 
was  more  excited  I  suppose  than  I  imagined.  But 
I  was  not  excited  enough  to  expect  what  happened 
to  me  before  I  had  taken  twenty  steps  along  that  wet 
sidewalk.  For  as  I  faced  the  driving  rain  and 
squinted  up  through  my  veil  to  make  sure  of  my 
bearings,  I  saw  a  ghost. 


176       THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

I  saw  that  ghost  there  in  front  of  me,  as  plainly 
as  though  it  had  been  a  real  man,  a  man  of  flesh  and 
blood.  And  it  was  the  ghost  of  Bud  Griswold — 
not  the  old  Bud  as  I  had  known  him,  but  a  sunken- 
eyed  and  spectral  and  shadow-like  vision  of  him. 

For  one  brief  moment,  as  he  passed  under  a 
street-lamp,  those  sunken  eyes  looked  at  me  hesi- 
tatingly, accusingly,  even  reproachfully.  And  that 
was  about  all  I  remembered. 

For  I  knew,  then,  that  that  somewhat  busy  night 
had  been  a  little  too  much  for  me.  I  found  myself 
shying  off  across  the  pooled  asphalt  of  the  open 
street,  without  knowing  I  was  doing  it,  the  same  as 
a  frightened  colt  shies  at  a  shadow. 

"I'm  getting  'em !"  I  gasped  out  loud.  "I'm  see- 
ing things!" 

I  tried  to  laugh.  But  my  throat  was  too  tight. 
So  I  did  the  next  best  thing.  I  began  to  run. 

I  don't  think  I'd  gone  fifty  feet  before  I  woke  up 
to  the  fact  that  one  of  my  suede  shoes  was  missing. 
It  had  fitted  none  too  well.  And  even  a  two-legged 
colt,  in  a  panic,  can  sometimes  cast  a  shoe. 

I  turned  back,  to  see  where  that  shoe  was.  As  I 
stood  there  blinking  through  the  rain,  a  closed  car 
shuddered  to  a  stop  beside  me. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        177 

"Hello,  Cinderella!"  I  heard  a  man's  voice  call 
out,  as  the  door  of  this  car  swung  open. 

I  still  stood  there  on  one  foot,  like  a  wet  crane, 
staring  in  at  the  shadowy  figure.  But  I  did  not 
speak. 

"Are  you  going  far?"  the  same  voice  asked  me. 
It  was  plainly  a  polite  question,  politely  put.  But 
this  time  it  was  not  the  question,  but  something  in 
the  timbre  of  the  voice  itself,  that  caused  me  to  lean 
forward  and  stare  in  over  the  running-board  so 
close  to  my  bedraggled  coat  of  Hudson  seal.  For 
it  was  my  Hero-Man  himself  who  had  spoken  to  me. 

I  continued  to  stare  at  him,  a  little  relieved  and  at 
the  same  time  a  little  puzzled. 

"I  don't  know  yet,"  I  told  him,  with  a  curt  laugh. 
"But  I'm  on  my  way."  And  I  noticed,  for  the  first 
time,  that  he  was  holding  a  rather  soggy-looking 
suede  shoe  in  his  hand. 

"Then  you'll  surely  let  me  give  you  a  lift,"  he 
said,  as  cool  as  a  cucumber. 

I  heard  footsteps  behind  me,  and  that  decided  the 
thing.  I  gathered  up  my  box  coat  tails  and  the 
ever-full  black  skirts,  and  climbed  into  the  car.  He 
closed  the  door  as  the  car  started  forward. 

"You  don't  remember  me,  perhaps?"  he  said. 


178       THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

looking  down  at  the  black  club-bag  which  I  was 
nursing  on  my  lap. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  I  said,  resenting  the  touch  of 
mockery  that  seemed  to  be  in  his  voice.  "For  I've 
just  been  trying  to  will  you  a  quarter  of  a  million 
dollars!" 

That  made  him  sit  up.     I  imagined  that  it  would. 

"And  I  hope  you  succeeded,"  he  said,  with  a  queer 
little  laugh. 

"It  wasn't  my  fault  that  I  didn't,"  I  told  him, 
realizing  for  the  first  time  that  I  was  both  tired  and 
hungry.  I  began  to  see  for  the  first  time,  too,  what 
a  strain  I'd  been  under,  for  the  last  two  or  three 
hours.  I  felt  like  a  whale  who'd  come  up  to  breathe. 
And  it  was  pretty  comfortable  in  that  big  padded 
seat,  purring  safely  through  the  city  streets  close 
beside  a  man  you  weren't  a  bit  afraid  of. 

"And  having  failed  in  that  charitable  effort,  what 
was  your  next  to  be  ?"  he  inquired. 

"I  was  going  to  lope  for  a  lunchery,"  I  told  him, 
still  again  finding  a  sort  of  perverse  joy  in  keying 
my  English  as  close  to  the  talk  of  the  underworld  as 
I  could. 

He  laughed  again,  easily  and  lazily. 

"Then  why  not  take  pity  on  my  desolation  and 
have  supper  with  me  ?"  he  asked. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        179 

"I'll  answer  that  question  when  you  answer  one 
of  mine,"  I  told  him. 

"Agreed,"  he  said.  "But  it  would  be  better,  per- 
haps, if  you  put  this  on !" 

He  was  holding  my  shoe  in  his  hand. 

"What  were  you  doing  on  that  street  when  you 
stopped  there  beside  me?"  I  asked,  as  I  took  the 
suede  shoe  from  him  and  slipped  my  foot  into  it. 

He  laughed  again.  I  couldn't  help  envying  him 
his  ease  and  coolness,  though  I  couldn't  quite  fathom 
the  source  of  his  amusement. 

"I  was  decorously  on  my  way  to  the  Harraton, 
where  my  present  apartment  happens  to  be,  and 
whither  we  are  at  this  moment  duly  proceeding." 

"And  you  think  I  make  a  habit  of  eating  supper 
with  men  in  their  apartments?"  I  inquired,  with 
dignity. 

"Why  not,  if  duly  chaperoned?"  he  asked,  with  a 
pointed  stare  at  the  black  bag  which  I  held  on  my 
knees. 

"Who's  the  chaperon  ?"  I  asked. 

He  stiffened  a  little  at  the  curtness  of  my  tone. 

"I  may  be  outrageous,  you  know,  but  my  family 
really  consider  themselves  irreproachable." 

I  felt  that  he  was  making  fun  of  me,  in  some  man- 
ner, but  I  couldn't  see  any  way  of  getting  back  at 


180       THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

him.  It  puzzled  me  a  good  deal,  not  that  I  gave  him 
something  to  laugh  at,  but  that  I  was  satisfied  to  sit 
there  beside  him,  and  have  him  talk  to  me  in  his  cool 
and  careless  tone.  The  solemn  truth  of  the  matter 
was  I  knew  that  I  liked  it. 

Then  I  suddenly  remembered  my  clothes.  I'd 
make  a  hit  with  that  irreproachable  family,  I  knew, 
in  Copperhead  Kate's  waist  that  fitted  too  soon  and 
a  skirt  with  a  three-inch  hike.  And  I  had  a  great 
deal  more  to  say  to  my  Hero-Man.  So  I  began  to 
hedge. 

"That  family  rather  frightens  me,"  I  told  him. 
"They  might  not  care  for  my  going-away  get-up." 

"Then  we  immediately  eliminate  the  family,"  he 
announced,  "since,  as  you  intimate,  familiarity  may 
possibly  breed  contempt."  And  still  again  he 
laughed.  "And  abjuring  one's  family  always  tends 
to  make  it  more  interesting,  and  much  less  embar- 
rassing, don't  you  think?" 

I  couldn't  quite  see  what  he  was  drifting  at,  but, 
luckily,  we  had  no  time  for  more  talk,  for  we  had 
pulled  up  at  the  Harraton  and  a  uniformed  doorman 
was  touching  his  cap  and  at  the  same  time  trying  to 
take  the  club-bag  out  of  my  hand.  But  I  hung  on 
to  the  bag. 

"Shall  we  go  up?"  my  Hero-Man  asked,  as  he 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        181 

stood  studying  my  face  in  the  strong  light  of  that 
apartment-hotel  foyer.  Then  his  eye  traveled  down 
over  my  outfit.  I  noticed  his  perplexed  look  as  he 
took  it  in,  box  coat  and  shoes  and  all.  I  could  feel 
my  face  turning  pink,  in  spite  of  myself.  I  wasn't 
worrying  about  where  those  clothes  came  from;  I 
was  worrying  more  over  the  fact  that  it  wasn't  the 
sort  of  get-up  that  went  with  onyx  pillars  and  plush 
carpets.  And  on  that  first  day  we  had  met,  I  re- 
membered, I'd  been  at  some  pains  to  tell  him  about 
my  weakness  for  nice  things. 

"Shall  we  go  up?"  he  asked  me  for  the  second 
time. 

"Sure,"  I  said,  making  a  bluff  at  putting  on  as 
bold  a  face  as  I  could. 

He  tried  to  take  my  club-bag,  and  the  elevator 
man  tried  to  take  my  club-bag,  and  a  Jap  who  opened 
the  door  for  us  tried  to  take  my  club-bag.  But  I 
kept  that  club-bag  right  in  my  own  hand.  And  I 
wondered,  as  I  stepped  into  Wendy  Washburn's 
apartment,  what  would  be  '%e  outcome  of  my  next 
adventure  that  night. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

AS  I  sat  in  that  apartment  of  Wendy  Wash- 
burn's  I  felt  like  a  storm-battered  man-of- 
war  that  had  slipped  into  a  neutral  port  for  its  legal 
and  limited  stay  and  before  long  would  be  once  more 
breasting  the  waves  of  an  open  sea. 

So  as  I  lay  in  that  sheltered  and  orderly  haven,  a 
flock  of  weary-eyed  wishes  and  longings  seemed  to 
swarm  up  from  somewhere  below,  the  same  as  tired 
seamen  might  swarm  to  the  decks  of  their  ship  as  it 
lay  beside  homely  green  harbor-hills  and  sloping 
town-streets  which  they  could  never  hope  to  tread. 

For  it  was,  in  the  first  place,  a  dream  of  an  apart- 
ment, with  rooms  enough,  apparently,  to  house  an 
Elks'  convention.  From  what  I  could  see  of  its 
lay-out,  I  took  it  to  be  a  duplex.  If  it  harbored 
other  members  of  my  Hero-Man's  family,  I  had  no 
chance  of  getting  a  glimpse  of  them.  I  was  glad 
enough  to  rest  my  eyes  on  old  brass  and  the  dull  re- 
flection of  shaded  lights  on  polished  wood  and  the 
quiet  tones  of  tapestry  which  centuries  of  time  had 

182 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        183 

mellowed  into  urbanity,   as   it  seems  to  do  with 
everything  but  human  beings. 

Then,  as  we  passed  through  into  a  dream  of  a  din- 
ing-room, I  found  a  table  laid  for  two.  I  stood  for 
a  moment  staring  rather  stupidly  down  at  that  island 
of  white  damask  floating  in  its  sea  of  gloom,  at  the 
silver  with  the  light  glinting  on  it,  at  the  cut-glass 
that  seemed  so  cold  and  non-committal  and  at  the 
same  time  so  warm  in  its  prismatic  flashes  of  acci- 
dental color.  That  table,  I  knew,  couldn't  have  been 
prepared  for  me.  It  wasn't  a  frame-up,  as  Bud 
would  have  phrased  it.  There  had  been  no  chance 
for  any  such  move.  So  I  found  myself  wondering 
if  it  was  always  kept  in  that  condition  of  spotless 
preparedness,  like  the  emergency  room  in  a  city  hos- 
pital. I  wondered  if  it  was  set  out  there  every  eve- 
ning, like  a  poacher's  night-line,  to  trap  each  and 
every  nibbler  that  happened  along. 

Then  I  felt  ashamed  of  my  suspicion.  For  when 
your  bait  is  worth  more  than  your  catch  it  doesn't 
exactly  pay  to  fish.  I  knew,  as  I  stared  down  at  the 
round  island  of  damask,  with  a  vase  of  Richmond 
roses  flaming  at  its  center  like  a  tiny  volcano,  that  it 
wasn't  a  dead-fall  in  disguise.  And  I  preferred  to 
think  of  it  as  being  suddenly  conjured  there,  by  a 
clap  of  the  hands.  It  was  some  final  touch  of  mid- 


184        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

night  magic.  That  night,  I  remembered,  wasn't  to 
be  judged  as  you  judge  an  ordinary  night  of  life. 
It  was  a  sort  of  Grimm's  fairy-tale  with  tassels  on. 
It  was  a  sort  of  nursery-rhyme  on  wheels.  For  I'd 
already  been  through  the  Cinderella  role,  with  the 
startled  Prince  finding  the  lost  slipper  and  returning 
it  to  its  owner, — though,  of  course,  an  eight-cylinder 
limousine  could  never  quite  take  the  place  of  a  pump- 
kin shell  coach. 

If  my  Prince  had  turned  into  Aladdin  the  tailor's 
son,  and  insisted  on  rubbing  his  magic  lamp,  it  was 
not  for  me  to  rub  my  eyes  and  question  his  power. 
I  was  too  tired  to  think,  and  too  hungry  to  haggle 
over  details.  And  the  whole  thing  seemed  a  sort  of 
Arabian  Nights' adventure  where  the  City  of  Spot- 
Cash  had  got  strangely  tangled  up  with  the  City  of 
Brass,  and  Broadway  and  Central  Park  badly  mixed 
with  Bagdad,  with  the  Tigris  twisting  down  past 
the  Palisades  where  the  Hudson  ought  to  have  been. 

It  was  Wendy  Washburn  himself — still  insisting 
on  taking  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course — who  promptly 
brought  me  back  to  earth. 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  as  well  to  slip  off 
that  heavy  coat  ?"  he  inquired. 

He  held  it  up  as  I  wriggled  out  of  it. 

"One  gets  so  used  to  fur,"  I  announced,  for  he 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        185 

was  smiling  a  little,  apparently  at  the  thought  of  my 
wearing  Hudson  seal  so  early  in  the  season. 

"Yes,  one  does,"  he  agreed,  as  he  laid  the  coat 
carefully  aside.  "Yet  from  its  appearance  I'd  ven- 
ture a  guess  that  you  haven't  had  it  long." 

I  gave  him  a  good  look,  but  his  face  was  as  non- 
committal as  his  cut-glass. 

"No,  they're  not  wearing  them  long  this  year," 
I  parried,  and  he  solemnly  wagged  his  head,  as 
though  that  pearl  of  wisdom  were  something  requir- 
ing deep  thought.  Then  he  came  out  of  his  trance. 

"Hungry?"  he  inquired,  as  he  held  a  chair  for 
me. 

"Starving,"  I  told  him  as  I  sank  into  it,  stowing 
the  club-bag  close  in  down  by  my  feet,  where  I  could 
keep  an  inquiring  toe  against  its  side,  the  same  as  a 
cow  going  to  market  keeps  a  nose  against  her 
precious  calf. 

Then  I  deliberately  turned  the  ring  on  my  finger, 
so  that  the  big  ruby  surrounded  by  black  pearls 
couldn't  keep  from  staring  him  in  the  face.  I 
waited  to  see  what  he  would  do  when  he  caught 
sight  of  it.  But,  to  my  surprise,  he  didn't  seem  to 
recognize  it.  So  there  was,  I  concluded,  more  than 
one  Wendy  in  the  world. 

"Champagne?"  he  casually  inquired,  as  he  sat 


186        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

down  opposite  me  and  the  little  Jap  pussyfooted 
into  the  room. 

"I  never  drink,"  I  told  him.  I  don't  know 
whether  it  was  the  promptness  or  the  primness  with 
which  I  piped  out  that  virtuous  declaration  that 
brought  one  of  the  heat-lightning  smiles  to  his  lips. 

"Of  course,"  he  agreed.  But  I  turned  pink  again, 
for  I  still  felt  that  he  was  in  some  way  making  fun 
of  me. 

He  sat  studying  me,  in  an  abstracted  sort  of  way 
as  I  began  to  eat.  He  could  see,  I  suppose,  that  I 
was  hungry,  and  long  before  the  days  when  I  used 
to  consume  untold  quantities  of  marshmallows  and 
olives  smuggled  into  the  Ursuline  academy  I  had 
won  a  justly  established  reputation  as  an  upstanding 
and  honest  eater.  The  repast  confronting  me  may 
not  have  had  all  the  romance  of  a  midnight  feast  be- 
hind a  practise-piano  in  a  lightless  recreation-room, 
but  it  made  up  in  material  what  it  lacked  in  spirit. 
For  there  was  boned  capon,  and  a  mousse  of  ham, 
and  Parker  House  rolls,  and  some  queer  tasting  little 
sandwiches  which  my  Hero-Man  told  me  were  made 
of  caviar.  But  the  latter  I  promptly  passed  by  for  a 
little  silver  boat  of  French  bon-bons. 

Then  Wendy  Washburn  began  to  fish,  for  it  was 
plain  that  I  was  still  perplexing  him. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        187 

"I  suppose  you  feel  rather  done  out?"  he  ven- 
tured, as  I  switched  to  a  dish  of  salted  nuts. 

"Why  should  I  ?"  I  parried,  wringing  a  perverse 
satisfaction  out  of  the  fact  I  could  be  a  puzzle  to 
him. 

"I  thought  that  you  must — well,  that  you  must 
have  had  rather  a  hard  night  of  it,"  he  explained. 
But  he  did  it  somewhat  haltingly. 

"Where  ?"  I  inquired,  determined  not  to  make  his 
investigations  too  easy  for  him. 

"That  was  what  I  was  hoping  you  would  tell 
me,"  he  replied. 

The  Jap  had  brought  in  tea-things,  and  my  Hero- 
Man,  I  noticed,  was  making  the  tea  with  his  own 
hands.  It  didn't  seem  right ;  yet  I  knew  that  it  must 
be  right,  or  Wendy  Washburn  would  never  have 
done  it.  The  tea  itself,  however,  tasted  like  plum- 
blossoms,  and  I  didn't  skimp  it,  for  after  emptying 
that  dish  of  salted  nuts  I  found  that  I  was  terribly 
thirsty. 

"It  won't  keep  you  awake  ?"  he  asked,  as  I  downed 
my  second  cup. 

I  had  to  laugh  at  that. 

"Me  awake?  I've  got  other  things  to  keep  me 
awake !" 

"Worries?" 


188        THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

"They  were  until  I  met  you."  And  I  rounded  up 
boldness  enough  to  look  right  at  him  as  I  said  it. 

"Then  for  the  second  time  I've  been  able  to  help 
you,"  he  said,  with  his  quiet  smile. 

I  nodded  my  head.  His  face  looked  stern,  for  a 
moment.  The  only  thing  that  made  it  relax  was 
my  gesture  of  dignified  disdain  when  his  Jap  servant 
held  a  cigarette-box  of  chased  silver  in  front  of  me. 

"So  you're  not  that  sort  of  girl  either?"  said  the 
man  across  the  table  from  me. 

"I  hope  not,"  I  said.  I  said  it  with  all  the  dignity 
that  I  could  command.  Shocking  one's  Hero-Man 
with  the  eye-opening  phrases  of  the  underworld 
seemed  very  different  to  shocking  him  by  one's 
actions. 

"My  sister-in-law,  the  duchess,  does  about  forty 
of  'em  a  day!"  he  dolefully  acknowledged.  Most 
families,  I  remembered,  had  a  skeleton  or  two  in 
their  closets. 

"I  wasn't  brought  up  that  way,"  I  rather  stiffly 
announced.  And  I  looked  up  quickly  to  see  whether 
or  not  he  was  laughing  at  me.  But  his  face,  as  far 
as  I  could  make  out,  was  quite  sober. 

"We  never  are,"  was  his  somewhat  puzzling 
reply.  But  I  edged  away  from  that  subject,  for  we 
seemed  to  be  skating  on  pretty  thin  ice. 


THE    HOUSE    OF   INTRIGUE        189 

''I  suppose  you  don't  remember  some  advice  you 
gave  me,  that  first  day  I  met  you  ?"  I  asked. 

"About  what?" 

"About  reading  Browning,"  I  reminded  him. 

"Did  you  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  new  light  in  his  face. 

"I  did,"  I  acknowledged.  "And  it  nearly  drove 
me  nuts !" 

"Nuts?"  he  repeated.  "Oh,  yes;  of  course,  nuts. 
By  that  I  infer  that  you  mean  insane?" 

"If  you  prefer  it  that  way,"  I  said.  But  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  Browning,  at  the  moment,  for  I'd  just 
kicked  the  black  bag  to  make  sure  it  was  at  my  feet. 

"I'm  afraid  a  great  many  of  us  are  that  way,  if 
we  only  knew  it,"  generalized  my  quiet-eyed  com- 
panion, as  he  reached  for  a  cigarette. 

I  had  leaned  forward  against  the  table,  and  the 
pressure  of  Copperhead  Kate's  automatic  under  my 
waist  made  me  suddenly  think  of  other  things. 

"Do  you  know,"  I  told  the  man  across  the  table 
from  me,  "I  rather  believe  the  whole  world  has  gone 
nuts !" 

He  did  not  speak  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"And  to  what  do  you  attribute  this — er — this 
somewhat  disturbing  belief?" 

"To  what  I've  gone  through  during  the  last  six 
hours,"  was  my  prompt  response. 


190        THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"What  has  that  been?"  he  just  as  promptly  de- 
manded. 

I  sat  studying  his  face,  for  a  minute  or  two,  won- 
dering just  what  I  could  tell  him,  asking  myself  just 
what  he  would  expect  of  me.  But  there  was  a  cool- 
ness and  aloofness  about  him  that  frightened  me. 
And  I  hadn't  yet  discovered  just  what  I  expected  of 
myself. 

"Instead  of  answering  that  question,"  I  told  him, 
"I'd  rather  ask  you  a  few." 

"For  example?"  he  prompted. 

"Who  are  the  Bartletts?"  I  demanded. 

"The  Bartletts?"  he  meditatively  repeated. 
"Bartletts?  There  must  be  a  great  many  Bart- 
letts." 

"Then  who  is  Clarissa  Bartlett?"  I  asked. 

"Why?"  he  casually  inquired. 

"I  said  I'd  rather  ask  the  questions,"  I  reminded 
him. 

"Then  supposing  we  look  'em  up  in  the  Social 
Register"  he  quietly  suggested.  And  I  remembered 
how  Bud  had  once  studied  the  starry  names  in  that 
same  Social  Register,  though  for  strictly  business 
reasons. 

"I  think  she's  sometimes  called  Claire,"  I  said, 
going  back  to  the  problem  of  the  Bartletts. 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        191 

"And  has  anything  of  importance  happened  to 
her?"  the  man  across  the  table  was  quietly  inquiring. 

"Something  very  important,"  I  just  as  quietly  re- 
sponded. 

Then  something  in  his  manner,  something  which 
I  couldn't  define,  something  which  I  could  never 
have  explained,  made  me  pull  up  short.  I  felt  like 
Eliza  crossing  the  ice,  only  the  bloodhounds  were  in 
my  own  heart,  instead  of  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Ohio.  And  you  can't  run  away  from  what  you 
carry  in  your  own  heart. 

"You  don't  know  much  about  me,  do  you?"  I 
finally  said  to  that  strange  friend  of  mine,  who,  at 
one  turn  of  a  card,  might  in  some  way  prove  himself 
an  enemy. 

"Far  more  than  you  imagine,"  he  said,  though  I 
knew  he  wasn't  altogether  sincere  in  saying  it. 
"But  you,  on  the  other  hand,  know  very  little  about 
me!" 

"Would  you  prefer  that  I  didn't  know  more?"  I 
asked  him.  And  I  tried  to  ask  it  honestly. 

He  seemed  to  realize  that.  For  the  first  time  that 
night  a  look  of  embarrassment  crept  into  his  face. 

"I'm  afraid  you'd  be  ashamed  of  me,  if  you  did," 
he  finally  acknowledged. 

"Then  how  about  me?"  I  asked. 


192        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

He  looked  at  me,  as  solemn  as  a  judge. 

"You  are  still  a  bundle  of  contradictions  to  me," 
was  all  he  ventured  to  say. 

"Well,  I  rather  surprise  myself  now  and  then,"  I 
acknowledged,  a  little  chilled  by  that  neutral-tinted 
description  of  myself.  For  every  woman  has  a 
hunger  to  be  something  positive,  even  though  she 
can't  be  something  superlative.  And  I  couldn't  get 
away  from  the  impression  that  we  were  both  beating 
about  the  bush,  that  we  were  merely  fencing  when 
time  was  too  precious  to  be  wasted  on  words. 

That  Hero-Man  of  mine  must  have  felt  somewhat 
the  same,  for  he  suddenly  turned  to  me  and  asked 
me  a  question  which  sent  a  Mississippi  of  nettle- 
rash  right  down  from  the  collar  of  Copperhead 
Kate's  black  waist  to  the  toe  in  the  stolen  suede  slip- 
per which  I  was  keeping  pressed  against  the  black 
club-bag.  He  spoke  quietly  enough,  but  it  seemed 
to  come  like  a  thunder-clap. 

"Did  you  make  a  good  haul  to-night?" 

I  could  feel  the  color  go  slowly  up  to  the  roots  of 
my  hair  as  I  sat  staring  at  him. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  I  somewhat  weakly 
inquired. 

"Precisely  what  I  said,"  was  his  answer,  and  his 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        193 

voice  reminded  me  of  a  razor-blade  wrapped  in 
chamois.  "Have  you  made  a  good  haul?" 

I  sat  there  in  silence,  trying  to  size  him  up.  I 
rather  resented  having  ten-inch  shells  exploded  that 
way  in  my  face.  I  was  equally  shocked  to  find  that 
he  had  merely  been  playing  a  part.  He  accepted 
me,  after  all,  as  nothing  more  than  a  gun-moll. 

I  must  have  stared  into  his  impassive  face  for  a 
full  two  minutes.  Then,  in  a  flash,  I  decided  to 
give  him  a  dose  of  his  own  medicine.  Since  he  rev- 
eled in  abruptness,  I'd  give  him  the  once-over  with- 
out any  orchestra-trimmings.  If  he'd  had  all  he 
wanted  of  fencing,  he  was  quite  welcome  to  naked 
steel. 

I  pushed  my  chair  back  a  little  from  the  table.  I 
reached  down  and  lifted  the  club-bag  to  my  knees. 
Then  I  drew  back  the  fastenings  at  each  end  of  its 
top,  tilted  the  bag  so  the  light  from  the  shaded 
electrolier  would  fall  more  directly  upon  what  it 
held,  and  opened  it. 

It  made  a  show,  all  right.  That  cave-garden  of 
Aladdin's  in  which  all  the  precious  stones  grew  on 
trees  would  have  looked  like  the  Great  American 
Desert  beside  it. 

My  Hero-Man  promptly  stood  up  in  his  place,  put 


194       THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

/ 
his  hands  on  the  table,  and  leaned  across  toward 

where  I  sat.  That  half-quizzical  smile  was  no 
longer  on  his  face.  But  it  was  not  exactly  surprise 
that  he  showed.  It  seemed  to  me  more  like  conster- 
nation, for  his  eyes  narrowed,  as  though  he  were  in 
a  brown  study.  I  would  have  laughed,  only  the 
sternness  of  his  face  rather  frightened  me. 

"How  did  you  get  that  stuff?"  he  asked. 

Most  men  would  have  asked  me  where  I  got  it. 
But  my  Hero-Man  was  not  like  most  men. 

"How  did  you  get  that  stuff?"  he  repeated,  as  he 
sank  back  into  his  chair.  I  had  the  club-bag  on  the 
table  by  this  time,  and  gave  him  the  full  benefit  of 
the  string  of  pearls  that  looked  as  though  a  white 
leghorn  had  laid  them.  Beside  them,  on  the  table- 
cloth, I  put  a  sunburst  of  diamonds  that  gave  me  the 
prairie-squint  to  look  at  in  the  strong  light.  And 
next  came  a  ruby  pendant,  of  one  big  stone  that 
looked  like  the  tail-light  of  the  Twentieth  Century 
Limited  surrounded  by  about  a  dozen  emeralds,  and 
next  the  lavaliere  that  was  long  enough  to  hang  a 
family  washing  on. 

"You  can't  call  me  a  piker,  at  any  rate!"  I  said, 
with  all  the  audacity  that  I  could  screw  up.  For  the 
eyes  of  my  Hero-Man  were  actually  beginning  to 
disturb  me. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        195 

He  smoked  for  a  moment  or  two,  without  saying 
a  word.  I  had  intended  to  return  the  compliment 
and  shock  him  a  bit.  But  I  hadn't  quite  counted  on 
leaving  him  with  a  face  as  long  as  the  moral  law. 

"Oh,  I  say,  this  does  mix  things  up!"  he  finally 
exclaimed,  as  though  he  were  thinking  out  loud. 

"Of  course  it  mixes  things  up,"  I  chirped  back  at 
him,  shrinking  back  into  my  crook  talk  as  a  turtle 
shrinks  back  into  its  shell,  "and  especially  for  the 
ginks  who  are  out  their  family  jewels !" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  mean  for  them,"  he  said.  "I  mean  for 
you." 

I  tried  to  laugh,  but  it  fell  short.  I  was  really 
beginning  to  feel  a  little  frightened. 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  done  this !"  Wendy  Washburn 
said  to  me. 

It  seemed  the  first  really  sincere  and  direct  state- 
ment that  he  had  made  to  me  all  that  night.  It  was 
as  though,  at  a  moment's  notice  and  for  a  moment's 
time,  he  had  dropped  his  mask. 

"Why?"  I  asked  him.  And  it  flashed  through 
me,  for  one  wild  breath  or  two,  that  this  man  must 
be  in  the  same  line  of  business  as  Bud  Griswold's, 
with  an  outsider  edging  in  on  the  beat  that  he  had 
picketed  out  for  himself. 


196       THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"Why?"  I  repeated,  studying  his  face,  which  still 
seemed  heavy  with  a  sort  of  condescending  I'm- 
terribly-sorry-for-you  expression. 

But  the  next  moment  the  mask  went  up,  like  a 
shutter  over  a  window.  He  even  smiled  a  little  as 
he  reached  out  for  another  cigarette. 

"You  don't  happen  to  be  looking  for  a  partner,  do 
you?"  he  inquired,  as  he  stared  rather  abstractedly 
over  that  sparkling  array  of  family  junk. 

"I  need  one  badly,"  I  rather  surprised  him  by  ad- 
mitting. 

"Could  I  possibly  qualify?"  he  asked,  after  a 
moment's  pause. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  I  told  him. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  announced,  with  an  almost  listless 
motion  toward  the  black  club-bag.  "For  I've  done  a 
bit  of  adventuring  myself  along  these  lines." 

I  looked  up  at  him  quickly,  suddenly  asking  my- 
self if  it  could  indeed  be  true  that  this  mysteriously 
calm-eyed  man  was  by  any  chance  what  Bud  and  his 
friends  would  call  a  crook  ?  A  crook !  I  hated  that 
ugly  and  overworked  word.  I  hated  it  as  much  as 
I  hated  the  tricks  and  meannesses  and  cruelties  with 
which  the  bearer  of  any  such  brand  was  compelled 
to  fill  his  life.  For  I  had  long  since  given  up  my 
girlish  faith  in  gentleman  burglars  and  evening- 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        197 

dress  Raffles,  who  were  criminals  only  at  strictly 
stated  hours  and  in  strictly  certain  directions.  I 
knew  there  was  no  such  animal,  outside  the  movies 
and  the  Broadway  melodramas.  Even  poor  old 
Bud,  in  his  time,  had  tried  to  be  a  Twentieth  Century 
Robin  Hood,  and  he  had  made  anything  but  a  suc- 
cess of  it.  I  simply  refused  to  accept  Wendy  Wash- 
burn  as  either  a  safe-breaker  or  a  gem-thief.  And 
I  preferred  steering  away  from  that  disturbing 
topic.  I  wanted  my  Hero-Man  to  keep  to  his 
pedestal. 

"Then  perhaps  you  can  advise  me  what  to  do  with 
this,"  I  suggested,  as  a  nurse  says  "See-the-moo- 
cow !"  to  distract  a  wayward  child. 

He  stared  down  at  the  loot. 

"Why,  the  first  thing,  I  suppose,  would  be  to  take 
stock,"  was  his  matter-of-fact  enough  suggestion. 

"That's  exactly  what  I've  been  wanting  to  do,"  I 
admitted. 

"No  time,  I  suppose,"  he  mildly  inquired,  as  he 
took  out  a  gold  pocket-pencil,  "to  make  inventories 
as  you  grab  goods  like  that?" 

"That  always  comes  afterward,"  I  calmly  ex- 
plained, "especially  when  you  do  the  work  as  I  have, 
to  do  it." 

He  brought  his  chair  and  came  and  sat  beside  me. 


198       THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

I  could  hear  him  gasp,  quite  plainly,  as  I  lifted  out 
the  first  bundle  of  papers.  Then  still  again  he 
stared  at  me. 

"Where  did  those  things  come  from?"  he  asked. 
He  seemed  no  longer  interested  in  just  how  I  got 
them. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  told  him.  And  that,  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes,  was  the  truth. 

"You  don't  know!"  he  repeated,  as  he  took  up 
one  of  the  packages  and  riffled  through  it.  "But 
you  do  know,  I  suppose,  that  these  are  what  our 
commercial  friends  would  call  gilt-edged  securi- 
ties?" He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  for  he  was 
checking  through  that  first  package  of  documents. 
"And  this  bundle,  I  imagine,  should  be  worth  almost 
a  hundred  thousand  dollars !" 

"Gee !"  I  said.  Then  I  stared  down  into  the  bag. 
There  were  five  more  packages  there  very  much  like 
the  first.  My  face  must  have  turned  rather  white, 
for  the  man  at  my  side  gave  me  a  quick  glance,  half 
of  inquiry,  half  of  apprehension.  Then  he  turned 
back  to  the  table. 

I  knew,  by  this  time,  that  I  was  no  longer  in  his 
thoughts.  He  was  no  more  conscious  of  me,  as  he 
sat  there  with  that  worried  look  on  his  face,  than 
a  Wall  Street  magnate  with  a  million-dollar  deal 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        199 

to  think  over  is  conscious  of  the  tow-headed  stenog- 
rapher who  waits  with  her  pad  ready  at  one  end  of 
his  desk.  Yet  there  was  nothing  reproving  about 
either  his  looks  or  his  movements.  He  seemed  more 
like  a  school-teacher  who'd  been  stumped  by  a  prob- 
lem handed  up  to  him  by  the  least  promising  of  all 
his  pupils.  And  it  was  a  problem  which  in  some 
way  had  to  be  worked  out. 

"We'll  just  tabulate  these  few  trifles  first,"  he 
finally  announced,  as  he  reached  for  a  sheet  of 
paper.  Then  he  took  his  little  gold  pocket-pencil 
and  deftly  made  out  a  list,  as  neat  as  an  auctioneer's, 
first  of  the  family  jewelry  and  then  of  the  bonds 
and  certificates  in  the  six  different  bundles.  Then 
he  added  up  the  neat  little  row  of  figures  which  he'd 
jotted  down. 

"Just  a  trifle  over  half  a  million,"  he  announced, 
without  a  ghost  of  a  smile.  Then  he  sat  back  and 
watched  me  as  I  started  to  pile  the  papers  and 
jewelry  back  in  the  bag  again.  I  may  have  been  as 
frightened  as  a  darky  in  a  graveyard;  but  I  didn't 
intend  to  let  my  Hero-Man  know  it. 

"These  things  shouldn't  be  left  lying  around  loose, 
should  they?"  I  offhandedly  ventured.  I  was  still 
altogether  uncertain  as  to  which  way  the  cat  was 
going  to  jump. 


200        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"That's  truer  than  you  imagine!"  retorted  my 
Hero-Man. 

"Then  what  are  we  going  to  do  about  it?"  I 
asked,  still  uncertain  of  my  ground. 

His  eye  met  mine.  I  don't  know  what  he  was 
about  to  say.  I  wasn't  even  sure  that  he  intended 
saying  anything.  But  that  tableau  was  interrupted 
by  the  noiseless  entrance  of  his  servant. 

That  small-bodied  Oriental,  in  fact,  came  and 
stood  close  behind  his  master.  His  attitude  was  one 
of  veiled  expectancy,  as  though  he  had  been  sent  for. 
Yet  I  could  recall  no  sign  or  message  having  gone 
out  from  that  room. 

I  saw  my  Hero-Man  tear  a  small  slip  from  the 
sheet  of  paper  on  which  he  had  been  inventorying 
the  contents  of  the  club-bag.  On  this  slip  of  paper 
he  wrote  a  sentence  or  two,  in  very  small  script. 
He  gave  it  to  the  waiting  Jap,  without  a  word  of  ex- 
planation, and  the  Jap  as  silently  vanished  from  the 
room. 

It  might  have  been  anything,  of  course.  But  that 
unknown  message  began  to  worry  me.  It  may  have 
been  nothing  more  than  the  next  day's  meat  order, 
or  a  carnage  call,  or  a  trick  to  intimidate  me  into  a 
freer  channel  of  confession. 

Yet  I  would  have  given  a  good  deal  to  know  just 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        201 

what  was  written  on  that  departing  slip  of  paper. 
I  let  no  sign  of  this  escape  me,  however,  as  I  went 
on  restoring  that  scattering  of  wealth  to  its  leather 
receptacle.  I  even  took  advantage  of  an  unobserved 
moment  to  slip  old  Ezra  Bartlett's  six  bank-notes 
from  their  keeping-place  and  drop  them  down  in 
the  club-bag.  Then  I  pulled  off  the  ruby  ring 
and  tossed  it  into  the  same  place.  For  a  new  im- 
pulse had  taken  possession  of  me.  I  wanted  to 
cleanse  my  soul  of  the  whole  tangled  business.  I 
wanted  none  of  the  fruits  of  that  night's  misadven- 
ture about  my  body.  Until  then,  for  some  reason, 
I  had  taken  a  sort  of  black  joy  in  letting  Wendy 
.Washburn  believe  the  worst  of  me  that  he  was  able 
to  believe.  Why  it  was,  I  couldn't  exactly  explain, 
any  more  than  I  can  explain  why  the  preacher's  son 
who  plays  pirate  loves  to  stick  a  wooden  dagger  in 
his  belt.  But  I'd  had  my  fill  of  playing  pirate,  and 
now  a  reaction,  born  of  heaven  knows  what,  had 
set  in. 

I  looked  up  as  I  finished  my  task,  to  find  Wendy 
Washburn  staring  at  me  with  a  slight  frown  on  his 
usually  placid  forehead. 

"I  suppose  you  still  don't  feel  like  telling  me  just 
how  and  where  you  got  possession  of  all  this?"  he 
asked,  with  a  hand-wave  toward  the  club-bag. 


202        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"I  don't  think  you'd  believe  me,  even  if  I  told 
you,"  was  my  somewhat  ungracious  reply. 

"Probably  not,"  he  said.  But  he  said  it  with  a 
ghost  of  a  sigh. 

"Positively  not,"  I  amended. 

"But  there's  still  the  question  of  what  we're  going 
to  do  about  it,"  he  ruminated  aloud. 

I  turned  and  closed  the  bag-top  with  a  snap. 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do  about  it?"  I  de- 
manded. 

He  looked  at  me  solemnly,  studiously,  as  if  he 
imagined  he  could  read  right  down  to  my  shoe- 
numbers  by  staring  into  my  eyes.  It  must  have 
been  the  way  the  Prince  of  Denmark  peered  into  the 
face  of  his  altogether  disappointing  Ophelia. 

"Especially  as  I  don't  see  a  mail-box  anywhere  in 
the  neighborhood!"  I  meekly  ventured,  remember- 
ing only  too  vividly  a  certain  afternoon  at  Long 
Beach. 

I  was  hoping  he  would  laugh  at  that,  but  all  he 
did  was  to  stand  up. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do  about  it,"  he 
solemnly  announced.  "I'm  going  to  take  this  whole 
thing  into  my  own  hands !" 

"And   then  what?"   I   somewhat  mockingly   in- 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        203 

quired.  For  there  were  more  snarls  in  that  tangled 
fish-line  of  fate  than  he  had  any  idea  of. 

"Then,"  he  told  me,  "I'm  going  to  take  these 
things  back  to  where  they  came  from !" 

"When?"  I  inquired,  wondering  if  it  would  be 
safe  to  say  that  I  regarded  him  as  one  grand  little 
retriever. 

'Tm  going  to  do  it  right  away,"  was  his  answer. 

"And  where  are  you  going  to  take  them?"  was 
my  next  inquiry.  I  could  even  afford  to  laugh,  he 
seemed  so  sure  of  himself,  and  his  little  pilgrimage 
seemed  such  a  perfectly  simple  one. 

"To  the  house  you  came  out  of  before  you  stepped 
into  my  car,"  he  told  me  as  he  reached  for  the  bag. 

"And  have  you  any  idea,"  I  inquired,  "of  just 
what  you'll  bump  into,  in  that  house  ?" 

"Perhaps  not,"  he  acknowledged.  "But  the  un- 
certainty of  it  rather  appeals  to  me !" 

He  seemed  nettled  by  my  listlessness.  He  was 
even  ready  to  disregard  my  cynical  laugh. 

"And  why  are  you  doing  all  this?"  I  asked,  with 
my  eyebrows  up. 

"For  the  sake  of  your  immortal  soul!"  was  his 
altogether  unexpected  retort,  as  he  reached  over  and 
touched  the  bell. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

I'M  afraid  I  was  thinking  more  about  my  mortal 
body  than  about  my  immortal  soul,  during  that 
ride  through  the  midnight  streets  of  the  city.  But  I 
was  bone-tired  by  this  time,  and  already  the  stupefy- 
ing fumes  of  my  utter  weariness  were  beginning  to 
float  like  a  mist  before  me  and  the  happenings  of  the 
last  few  hours.  I  lost  my  interest  in  things.  I  didn't 
seem  to  care  much  how  they  came  out.  And  some- 
where at  the  back  of  my  brain  revolved  a  strangely 
mixed-up  reel  of  weasel- faced  old  men  and  haunted 
houses  and  lavalieres  and  rubies  and  diamonds  and 
four-posters  and  wills  and  wall-safes  and  boned 
capon  and  crepe-de-chine  nightgowns  and  auto- 
mobiles that  purred  along  wet  pavements  and 
thumped  softly  over  car-tracks  and  swayed  a  little 
from  side  to  side  like  the  arm  of  a  mumble-low 
mammy  putting  a  tired  baby  to  sleep.  And  I  was 
the  baby. 

I  didn't  care  much  where  my  Hero-Man  took  me, 
or  what  happened  to  me,  so  long  as  I  was  left  there 
in  peace,  against  those  well-padded  cushion-backs. 
But  through  the  soft  fog  of  weariness  that  sur- 

204 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        205 

rounded  me  I  became  conscious  of  several  things. 
The  first  was  that  I  was  in  a  smaller  car  than  before, 
a  sort  of  single-seated  covered  roadster  or  coupe. 
The  second  was  that  the  rain  was  now  coming  down 
in  a  steady  pour,  making  the  empty  streets  look  like 
a  city  of  the  dead.  The  third  was  that  the  car  in 
which  I  had  been  half -asleep  had  come  to  a  stop. 
And  the  last  one  was  that  my  Hero-Man  was  speak- 
ing to  me. 

"I'm  sorry  to  disturb  you,"  he  was  saying.  "But 
it  would  be  as  well  for  you  to  wait  here  in  the  car 
until  I  come  back." 

"Back  from  where?"  I  asked,  as  he  stepped  out 
the  car  door  with  the  club-bag  in  his  hand. 

"From  there,"  he  answered,  pointing  toward  a 
wide-fronted  house  of  Indiana  limestone.  Each 
barred  window  of  that  house  was  shrouded 
and  curtained.  Not  a  light  shone  from  it.  Even 
the  street  door  stood  ominously  dark.  But  it  was 
none  of  these  things  that  left  me  suddenly  wide 
awake. 

It  was  the  discovery  that  directly  across  the  street 
from  where  we  had  stopped  stood  the  very  house 
from  which  I  had  fled  two  hours  earlier.  It  was 
the  discovery  that  Wendy  Washburn  had  been  able 
to  thread  his  way  back  to  that  house  of  intrigue, 


206        THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

without  so  much  as  a  word  of  help  from  me.  He 
had  come  back  to  it  as  quietly  as  a  homing  pigeon 
returns  to  its  cote.  He  understood,  without  my 
telling  him,  the  precise  quarter  from  which  I  had 
carried  off  that  club-bag  of  Copperhead  Kate's. 
And  I  couldn't  help  wondering  just  how  much  more 
he  knew  about  that  house. 

"And  how  long  am  I  to  wait  here?"  I  -""ked,  as 
casually  as  I  could. 

He  looked  at  the  house- front  a  moment,  before 
turning  back  to  me.  There  was  no  longer  any  trace 
of  flippancy  about  him. 

"If  I'm  not  back  here  in  a  reasonable  length  of 
time,  I  want  you  to  telephone  my  man  at  the  Har- 
raton.  He  will  know  what  to  do." 

"But  what  do  you  call  a  reasonable  length  of 
time?"  I  insisted.  "For  you  know  I've  got  to  sleep 
some  time  between  now  and  next  Christmas  ?" 

He  laughed  a  little  at  that,  very  quietly. 

"There  are  a  few  things  that  are  worth  more  than 
sleep,"  he  announced. 

"Not  to  me,"  I  retorted,  for  I  didn't  want  him  to 
think  that  excursion  of  his  was  troubling  me  as 
much  as  it  did.  But  I  scarcely  believed  he  heard 
what  I  said,  for  he  had  turned  away  and  was  step- 
ping quickly  up  the  wide  limestone  treads. 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        207 

I  sat  in  the  darkened  car  watching  him  through 
the  falling  rain.  I  saw  him  stop  before  the  double 
door  of  heavy  plate  glass  guarded  by  its  scroll-work 
of  black  iron.  I  waited  for  him  to  ring,  wondering 
what  his  reception  in  that  strange  house  would  be. 
But  instead  of  ringing,  he  quietly  took  out  a  pass- 
key, inserted  it  in  the  door-lock,  and  stepped  inside. 

I  sat  there,  stunned.  Here  was  a  new  twist,  and 
a  twist  that  was  a  little  too  much  for  me.  Why 
should  Wendy  Gruger  Washburn  carry  a  key  to  that 
house  of  horrors?  And  how  could  such  a  key  come 
into  his  possession  ?  And  why  was  he  holding  back 
information  which  he  could  easily  have  given  me,  if 
he'd  wanted  to?  And  was  the  gift-ring  which  he 
had  so  calmly  ignored,  after  all,  in  some  way  asso- 
ciated with  him?  And  if  so,  just  who  and  what 
was  this  Wendy  Washburn?  And  why  should  he 
be  so  actively  interested  in  my  immortal  soul,  and 
snatch  half-a-million  dollars  out  of  my  hand,  the 
same  as  a  big  brother  snatches  an  especially  juicy 
apple  from  baby  sister  on  the  plea  that  it  might  give 
her  cholera-morbus?  And  was  he  actually  taking 
that  wealth  back  to  its  owners?  And,  if  so,  just 
who  were  its  owners  supposed  to  be  ?  Or  was  there 
some  ulterior  motive  in  that  charitable  little  move? 
Was  my  Hero-Man  merely  playing  lion  to  my  ante- 


208        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

lope,  gathering  in  at  one  bound  the  prize  which  only 
months  of  browsing  could  have  prepared  for  him? 

I  suddenly  remembered  what  Wendy  Washburn 
had  said  to  me,  that  first  day  of  our  meeting.  "I  do 
a  little  in  the  hold-up  line  myself,  you  know!"  he 
had  announced  with  that  half-satiric  smile  of  his. 
And  as  we  had  eaten  supper  together  that  night  he 
had  tentatively  though  flippantly  suggested  that  we 
go  into  partnership.  Could  he  have  been  more  sin- 
cere than  I  imagined  when  he  put  that  question  to 
me?  And  was  he  in  some  way  associated  with 
Copperhead  Kate's  visit  to  that  house  of  plots  and 
counter-plots?  Could  he,  after  all,  be  a  sort  of  Bud 
Griswold  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  setting,  going  back  to 
complete  a  haul  which  must  in  some  way  have  mis- 
carried ? 

Then  I  stopped  thinking  altogether.  For  as  I  sat 
there  in  the  darkness  of  the  car  I  caught  sight  of  a 
second  man  in  a  rain-coat  as  he  stopped  before  the 
house,  looked  about,  and  then  hurried  up  the  steps. 

This  second  man,  I  saw,  took  out  a  pass-key,  un- 
locked the  door  and  swung  it  open.  But  the  mo- 
ment he  did  so  the  muffled  sound  of  a  revolver-shot 
rang  out  from  the  house  he  was  about  to  enter. 

The  effect  of  that  shot  on  him  was  instantaneous. 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        209 

He  dove  in  through  the  door,  without  even  waiting 
to  swing  it  shut  after  him.  And  in  two  shakes  I 
was  up  out  of  that  seat  and  out  of  that  automobile 
and  skipping  across  the  asphalt  pools. 

"Me  for  the  firing-line !"  I  announced  to  the  mid- 
night air,  as  I  made  for  that  still  open  door. 

I  still  had  Copperhead  Kate's  automatic  in  the 
slack  of  her  over-abundant  waist.  Never  in  all  my 
life  had  I  shot  off  a  pistol  and  I  doubt  if  I  could  have 
pulled  a  trigger  without  shutting  my  eyes,  yet  I  felt 
decidedly  better  when  I  held  that  black-metaled  fire- 
arm once  more  in  my  hand.  For  the  house,  as  I 
stepped  into  it,  was  as  dark  as  pitch,  and  I  had  no 
idea  of  what  the  opening  of  the  first  door  might 
confront  me  with. 

So  I  stood  there  for  a  minute  or  two,  straining 
both  my  ears  and  my  eyes.  But  I  saw  nothing,  and 
heard  nothing.  I  groped  my  way  deeper  into  the 
house.  Then  I  suddenly  stopped,  and  listened 
again.  A  moment  later  I  turned  to  the  right,  felt 
my  way  through  an  open  door,  and  listened  still 
again. 

This  time  I  distinctly  caught  the  sound  of  a  voice. 
It  was  a  woman's  voice.  It  was  not  a  loud  voice, 
for  it  came,  apparently,  from  a  closed  room,  even 


210        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

though  that  room  lay  somewhere  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood.  But  it  was  an  angry  voice,  tense, 
imperative,  shrill  with  indignation. 

I  groped  my  way  slowly  onward,  with  fingers  out- 
stretched, like  the  whiskers  of  a  house-cat,  until  I 
came  to  a  wall.  Then  I  felt  along  this  wall  until  I 
reached  a  door.  I  found  the  knob,  nursed  it  care- 
fully in  my  hand,  and  slowly  turned  it. 

The  door  opened  without  a  sound.  But  across 
that  door,  I  saw,  hung  a  pair  of  heavy  portieres. 
So  I  parted  these,  cautiously,  where  a  thin  pencil 
of  light  showed  along  their  edges.  And  as  I  did 
so  I  beheld  a  scene  which  left  me  all  eyes,  and  a  little 
flighty  in  the  region  where  that  heavy  automatic  had 
been  hanging  for  so  long. 

For  directly  in  front  of  the  door,  with  her  back 
to  me,  I  saw  Copperhead  Kate.  She  was  still 
dressed,  with  my  flesh-colored  crepe-de-chine  nightie, 
which  made  her  look  ridiculous,  over  her  other 
clothes,  but  over  the  night-dress  she  now  wore  a 
man's  rain-coat  hanging  loose  at  the  front.  Her 
fringe  of  russet  bangs  was  disarranged,  and  as  she 
leaned  forward  with  her  head  thrust  out,  there  was 
something  vindictive  and  tigerish  in  her  attitude, 
something  that  reminded  me  of  a  cat  that  had  made 
ready  to  spring.  She  was  no  longer  like  a  snake; 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        211 

she  had  lost  too  much  of  her  torpor  for  that.  But 
what  gave  point  to  her  attitude  was  the  fact  that  in 
a  close-crooked  right  hand,  poised  on  a  level  with 
her  breast,  she  held  a  black-barreled  automatic  pistol, 
a  twin-sister,  apparently,  to  the  one  which  I  carried 
in  my  own  somewhat  astounded  right  hand. 

Close  beside  her,  at  her  feet,  stood  the  black  club- 
bag  which  I  so  recently  had  seen  in  the  hand  of 
Wendy  Washburn.  But  along  the  opposite  wall  of 
the  room,  distinct  in  the  light  that  flooded  it  from 
floor  to  ceiling,  stood  a  motley  and  very  melancholy 
appearing  row  of  men  and  women. 

They  stood  side  by  side  in  that  strained  and  un- 
natural position  which  results  from  holding  the 
hands  high  above  the  head.  And  in  that  row  I  saw 
my  Hero-Man  himself,  and  close  beside  him  Miss 
Ledwidge,  with  anger  more  than  apprehension  on 
her  indignant  face,  and  next  to  her  again  Doctor 
Otto  Klinger,  with  beads  of  perspiration  on  his  fore- 
head and  a  very  unhealthy  color  about  his  somewhat 
puffy  cheeks.  Next  came  old  Ezra  Tweedie  Bart- 
iett,  with  his  wizened  little  weasel  face  quivering 
with  either  apprehension  or  indignation,  I  couldn't 
tell  which.  Beside  him  stood  his  brother  Enoch, 
his  squinting  and  half-closed  eyes  plainly  burning 
with  a  light  of  sullen  revolt.  Next  to  this  hunched- 


up  figure  again  stood  the  butler  in  the  crimson- 
rambler  knickerbockers,  with  his  white  stockings 
visibly  knocking  together  at  the  knees,  while  on  the 
floor  sat  another  man  servant  in  uniform,  tying  a 
handkerchief  about  the  calf  of  his  leg  where  a  slow 
rivulet  of  the  color  of  raspberry  vinegar  stained  the 
white  stocking  and  flowed  on  down  into  the  broad- 
toed  patent-leather  service  pump.  As  he  worried 
over  this  improvised  bandage  he  emitted,  from  time 
to  time,  a  loud  and  groaning  bleat.  But  this  bleat 
was  pretty  well  drowned,  as  a  rule,  in  the  quick  and 
impassioned  words  of  Copperhead  Kate  as  she 
caused  her  pistol-end  to  waver  from  one  end  of  that 
ludicrous  line  to  the  other. 

"...  And  I'm  going  to  find  that 
out,"  I  could  hear  her  cry,  in  a  white  heat  of  anger, 
"or  I'm  going  to  blow  the  lid  off  the  whole  bunch 
of  you!  I  want  to  know  what's  going  on  in  this 
house,  and  who's  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  mix-up! 
I  want  to  know  why  that  calm-eyed  stiff  walked 
back  in  here  with  this  bunch  of  swag !  And  I  want 
to  know  why  that  blond  porker  there  pumped  about 
three  grains  of  morphine  into  me  when  I  was  up  on 
that  four-poster."  She  swung  about  on  the  clammy 
and  cowering  Doctor  Klinger  with  hate  in  her  eye. 
"It  was  some  dose,  my  fat  friend,  and  you'd  'a'  had 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        213 

me  still  dreaming  of  home  and  mother  if  I  hadn't 
learned  to  use  the  needle  before  bottle-washers  got 
to  dressing  themselves  in  claret-colored  pants  and 
hash-slingers  didn't  know  enough  to  stand  still  when 
there  was  a  gun  in  front  of  them !  And  I  want  to 
know  what  that  rat- faced  old  gink  meant  by  trying 
to  throw  me  over  a  stair-banister,  and  where  that 
baby-eyed  gun-moll  went  with  my  clothes,  and  why 
all  you  gasoonies  think  just  because  I'm  a  woman  I 
haven't  the  nerve  to  put  a  half-ounce  of  lead  through 
your  ribs !" 

I  realized  as  I  stood  there  that  my  rusty-haired 
friend  hadn't  been  christened  Copperhead  Kate  for 
nothing.  For  they  had  to  take  it  standing,  and 
none  of  them  showed  any  great  love  for  it. 
But  not  one  of  them  said  a  word,  I  noticed,  and  not 
one  of  them  moved.  And  in  the  meantime  Copper- 
head Kate,  who  had  the  whip-hand,  was  having  her 
little  say-so  out. 

"You  ain't  all  hollerin'  at  once,  are  you?  Well, 
if  that's  the  way  you  feel  about  it,  just  keep  on 
holdin'  your  traps  shut.  And  don't  move — not  a 
dam'  one  o'  you,  or  you'll  sure  be  trippin'  over  your 
own  tombstone!"  she  went  on  with  an  increasing 
show  of  anger.  "I'm  goin'  to  back  out  o'  this  door, 
and  if  any  wise  guy  here  wants  to  take  a  chance  on 


214        THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

comin'  after  me,  he'll  get  what  Mister  Pink-pants 
on  the  floor  there  got !" 

Silence  for  one  short  moment  reigned  in  the 
room. 

"Just  a  moment,"  I  heard  my  Hero-Man  say,  as 
the  woman  in  the  rain-coat  started  to  back  toward 
the  portiere  where  I  stood.  "Would  you  mind  tell- 
ing me  just  why  you  happened  to  come  to  this 
house?" 

"That's  my  business !"  retorted  Copperhead  Kate. 

"But  I  have  a  particular  reason  for  asking,"  per- 
sisted the  man  at  the  end  of  that  dolorous  line.  He 
was  speaking  with  a  forced  politeness  which,  had  I 
stood  in  Katie's  shoes,  I'd  have  accepted  as  a  danger- 
signal. 

"And  I  have  a  particular  reason  for  keeping  my 
mouth  shut,"  announced  Copperhead  Kate,  whose 
temper,  that  night,  had  already  been  tried  beyond 
all  endurance. 

"You  may  think  differently,  the  next  time  we 
meet,"  ventured  my  Hero-Man. 

The  gentle  Katie  snorted  aloud.  "And  when  are 
we  going  to  meet  ?"  she  demanded. 

"Much  sooner,  I  imagine,  than  you  seem  to  an- 
ticipate," was  the  other's  reply. 

The  woman  with  the  automatic  stepped  toward 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        215 

him,  moving  forward  with  a  slow  and  cat-like  tread. 
But  there  was  a  menace  in  every  movement.  And 
the  black  pistol,  I  noticed,  was  trained  directly  at 
Wendy  Washburn's  head. 

"For  two  pins  I'd  plug  you  where  you  stand!" 
she  said.  But  she  said  it  with  an  ominous  quietness 
that  gave  me  goose-flesh  from  the  ground  up. 

"And  what  good  would  that  do  you?"  asked  the 
man  so  quietly  confronting  her.  But  he  kept  his 
troubled  eyes  on  that  barrel-end  all  the  time. 

"It  might  do  me  more  good  than  you  imagine!" 
she  retorted  with  unreserved  malignity. 

"Then  don't  let  me  interfere  with  any  of  your 
personal  pleasures,"  was  the  other's  quiet-toned 
reply.  It  seemed  to  puzzle  the  threatening  woman 
for  a  moment,  for  she  gave  a  cat-like  "sphttt"  at  him 
as  she  stood  somewhat  frowningly  regarding  his 
impassive  face.  Then  she  backed  slowly  away,  and 
once  more  dominated  the  entire  line  with  her  black- 
metaled  barrel. 

"This  is  going  to  do  the  talking  for  me,"  she  told 
them,  with  a  wave  of  her  automatic.  "And  it  won't 
need  to  speak  twice.  So  mind  what  I've  told  you, 
and  stay  where  you  are.  And  the  longer  you  stay 
there  the  safer  it'll  be  for  you." 

Still  again  she  started  to  fall  back,  catching  up 


216        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

the  black  club-bag  as  she  did  so.  But  never  once 
did  her  eyes  leave  that  silent  line  as  she  continued 
to  back  step  by  step  toward  the  heavy  portieres. 
And  every  eye  in  that  line,  as  she  went,  followed 
her  minutest  movement.  She  stopped  only  when 
she  felt  the  weight  of  the  heavy  draperies  against 
her  shoulders. 

I  drew  away,  suddenly,  as  her  left  hand  swung 
the  bag  back  through  the  portieres  and  dropped  it  to 
the  floor.  Once  this  hand  was  free,  she  began  feel- 
ing for  the  door,  padding  about  to  find  the  key  that 
stood  in  the  lock.  But  all  the  while  she  was  study- 
ing that  closely  watching  line  of  her  enemies. 

It  was  her  intention,  I  saw,  to  swing  the  door 
shut,  lock  it  and  make  her  get-away  before  they 
could  break  through.  It  was  a  well-thought-out 
maneuver,  but  it  had  just  one  defect.  There  was 
just  one  factor  she  was  not  figuring  on.  And  that 
was  me. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

I  WAITED  until  Copperhead  Kate  had  edged 
half-way  through  the  heavy  folds  of  brocaded 
velour,  with  her  pistol  hand  still  inside  the  lighted 
room.  Then  I  decided  to  get  ready  for  her. 

Those  portieres,  I  saw,  would  keep  her  extended 
right  hand  from  making  any  rapid  movement  to- 
ward the  rear.  So  I  reversed  the  hold  on  my  own 
automatic  and  raised  it  above  my  head.  As  the 
figure  in  the  rain-coat  pushed  still  deeper  in  through 
the  swaying  draperies  I  brought  that  heavy  mass  of 
metal  down  on  the  extended  forearm  with  all  the 
force  I  could  put  into  the  blow.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment I  pushed  Copperhead  Kate  bodily  and  none 
too  gently  back  into  the  lighted  room.  She  stum- 
bled and  fell  forward,  with  a  blasphemous  little  gasp, 
at  almost  the  same  moment  that  her  pistol  dropped 
to  the  floor. 

I  was  after  that  pistol  as  quick  as  a  lynx,  and 
before  my  astounded  friend  Katie  could  so  much  as 
get  to  her  feet,  and  even  before  the  astounded  line 
at  the  far  side  of  the  room  could  realize  what  had 

217 


218        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

happened,  I  was  stationed  there  in  front  of  the  por- 
tieres with  a  black-barreled  automatic  in  either  hand 
and  fire  in  my  eye.  And  it  was  my  turn,  I  knew,  to 
take  a  hand  in  the  little  drama. 

"Put  up  those  hands,"  I  told  the  startled  woman 
as  she  turned  and  stared  at  me  with  empty  and  ex- 
pressionless eyes. 

"For  the  love  of  Mike!"  she  murmured,  a  little 
stupid  with  surprise. 

"Then  get  back  in  that  line!  Get  back  there, 
quick,  or  you'll  be  swallowing  a  dose  of  the  same 
bitters  you've  been  talking  about  giving  every  one 
else !" 

Copperhead  Kate  fell  back,  step  by  step,  until  she 
stood  between  the  fat  doctor  and  Ezra  Tweedie 
Bartlett  himself.  I  caught  a  grunt  of  relief  from 
that  rat-faced  old  rascal  as  she  did  so.  But  from 
the  man  in  evening  clothes,  at  the  far  end  of  that 
line,  came  a  quiet  but  distinct  sound  of  laughter. 

I  turned  on  him  sharply,  but  he  didn't  seem  in  the 
least  afraid  of  me. 

"lliis  is  an  awfully  uncomfortable  position,  you 
know,"  he  quietly  reminded  me.  "And  under  the 
circumstances,  I  think  you'll  admit,  altogether  un- 
necessary." 

My  first  impulse  was  to  resent  that  speech,  as 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE       219 

an  impertinence.  Then  I  remembered  that  Wendy 
Washburn  had  his  royal  way  of  seeming  right,  even 
when  he  was  in  the  wrong,  and  that  if  it  came  to  a 
backdown  I'd  find  it  no  easy  thing  to  keep  my  posi- 
tion a  dignified  one.  I  remembered,  too,  that  there 
was  scarcely  a  chance  of  any  member  of  that  group 
being  armed.  It  was  ten  to  one,  had  any  of  them 
been  heeled,  that  Copperhead  Kate's  speechifying 
would  have  been  punctuated  by  a  random  bullet  or 
two.  And  if  you  think  it's  easy  to  stand  with  your 
hands  above  your  head,  for  even  five  minutes  at  a 
time,  try  it  just  once  in  front  of  a  clock ! 

"All  right !"  I  announced  in  my  grandest  manner. 
"You  can  stand  at  ease  there,  the  whole  lot  of  you !" 
For  I  was  tired  myself  and  it  might  not  be  so  profit- 
able, in  the  end,  to  add  to  their  troubles. 

I  could  hear  the  sigh  of  relief  that  went  up  from 
that  weary  array  of  figures.  A  dozen  aching  arms, 
I  noticed,  were  very  promptly  lowered. 

"But  no  shifting  in  the  line!"  I  commanded,  as  I 
gave  my  fat  blond  doctor  the  full  benefit  of  a  barrel- 
end  against  his  vest  front.  He  made  a  stealthy 
move,  as  though  to  drop  behind  the  others,  possibly 
with  a  view  toward  bolting  for  the  door.  And  I 
held  them  there  like  a  drill-sergeant,  with  the  two 
automatics  wavering  up  and  down  the>'r  Jjttle 


220        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

Mary's.  For  I  meant  business  and  I  wanted  them 
to  know  it. 

"I  guess  it's  my  turn  to  put  a  few  questions  to 
this  little  party,"  I  told  them  as  I  backed  slowl> 
away,  so  as  to  command  a  better  view  of  che  line  as 
a  whole.  "And  I'm  going  to  get  answers  to  'em  or 
you're  going  to  dance  high.  Now,  you,"  I  contin- 
ued, confronting  the  smoldering-eyed  Copperhead 
Kate,  "how  did  you  get  into  this  house  to-night?" 

"I  guess  I  walked  in,"  was  her  sullenly  insolent 
answer. 

"Right  through  a  locked  door?" 

"Oh,  I've  been  carrying  a  pass-key  to  this  house 
for  a  week  or  more,"  she  airily  acknowledged. 

"Where'd  you  get  that  key?" 

"A  gen'l'man  friend  o'  mine  cut  it  from  a  blank." 

"And  you  came  to-night  to  make  your  haul?" 

"Sure !     You  know  that  without  askiri'  me !" 

"But  what  made  you  come  to  this  particular 
house?"  I  demanded,  determined  to  get  a  snarl  or 
two  out  of  that  tangle  while  the  chance  was  be- 
fore me. 

"I  liked  the  lookc  of  it,"  was  Copperhead  Kate's 
altogether  unsatisfactory  retort. 

"But  who'd  told  you  about  the  wall-safe  up- 
stairs?" I  persisted. 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        221 

"I  must  Ve  dreamed  it,"  she  equivocated. 

"Who  told  you?"  I  insisted. 

"A  butler  who  was  fired  from  here  early  last 
winter." 

"And  that  butler  knew  valuable  papers  were  in 
this  safe?" 

She  blinked  at  me  meditatively.  Then  she 
laughed. 

"Gee,  no!  All  I  was  after  was  shiners — what 
your  friend  Bud  used  to  call  ice." 

"Never  mind  my  friend  Bud,"  I  called  out  to  her, 
resenting  the  note  of  mockery  that  had  crept  into 
her  voice.  "But  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  how  you 
got  hold  of  this  second  automatic." 

Copperhead  Kate  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Her 
face  looked  genuinely  perplexed. 

"A  ghost  gave  it  to  me,"  she  finally  explained. 

An  uneasy  move  went  down  the  line. 

"A  what?"  I  demanded. 

"I  was  lyin'  up  in  that  four-poster  when  some- 
thing in  white,  with  a  white  face,  crept  into  the  room, 
It  came  over  to  the  bed.  It  stood  there,  without 
moving.  Then  without  a  word  it  dropped  that  gun 
into  my  hand  and  turned  and  slipped  out  of  the 
room  again." 

Here  was  still  another  mystery  in  that  crowded 


222        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

house  of  mysteries !  And  I  had  no  reason  to  suspect 
that  Copperhead  Kate  wasn't  telling  the  truth. 

"What  did  the  visitor  look  like?"  I  asked. 

"Like  the  morgue  at  four  A.  M.  !"  announced  the 
woman  with  the  thatch  of  russet  bangs. 

"But  surely  you  saw  her  face." 

Copperhead  Kate  shrugged  a  non-committal 
shoulder. 

"There  wasn't  any  too  much  light  burning  in  that 
big  bedroom.  And  I  was  so  glad  to  get  the  gun  I 
didn't  ask  for  any  identification  cards !" 

"You  just  got  busy  rounding  up  your  friend? 
here?" 

Copperhead  Kate  stood  regarding  them  with  open 
contempt. 

"All  but  that  cuff-shooter  at  the  far  end  there. 
He  had  the  nerve  to  walk  in  on  me  with  that  club- 
bag  of  mine  right  in  his  hand.  So  I  just  took  him 
in  under  my  wing." 

"Is  that  true?"  I  asked,  turning  to  Wendy  Wash- 
burn. 

"Too  true,"  was  his  flippantly  solemn  retort.  He 
was  not  taking  the  situation,  I  could  see,  in  quite 
the  same  spirit  as  the  others  were.  He  was  still  a 
puzzle  to  me.  Every  time  I  wanted  to  believe  in 
him  something  turned  up  to  make  that  belief  impos- 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        223 

sible.  And  I  couldn't  help  still  questioning,  even  as 
he  stood  before  me,  whether  he  was  in  a  compact 
with  Copperhead  Kate  or  not. 

Yet  I  couldn't  stand  there  all  night  third-degree- 
ing that  line  of  altogether  unwilling  witnesses.  So 
I  cut  things  short  by  swinging  about  to  old  Ezra 
Bartlett. 

"I  want  to  know  what  you  did  with  that  body?" 
I  shot  out  at  him  straight  from  the  shoulder. 

"That  what  ?"  suddenly  demanded  Wendy  Wash- 
burn,  from  the  end  of  the  line. 

"Could  I  say  a  word  or  two?"  almost  as  promptly 
requested  Miss  Ledwidge,  who  until  this  moment 
had  remained  both  silent  and  passive. 

"No,"  I  told  her.  "It's  this  human  house-rat  I 
want  to  talk  to !" 

I  repeated  my  question  to  Ezra  Bartlett. 

"But  what  body?"  again  interrupted  Wendy 
Washburn,  with  an  actual  note  of  anxiety  in  his 
voice. 

"There's  a  dead  woman  somewhere  in  this  house," 
I  informed  him,  "and  I  want  to  know  what  became 
of  her!" 

"A  dead  woman?"  he  echoed,  peering  along  the 
line. 

"Yes,    and    if    I'm   not    greatly   mistaken,    that 


224        THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

woman  was  murdered,  and  murdered  by  somebody 
in  this  room!" 

There  was  an  uneasy  stir  along  that  line  of 
anxious  faces.  I  could  even  hear  Copperhead 
Kate's  soft  murmur  of  "Hully  Gee!"  and  see  her 
sleepy  eyes  widen  with  the  shock  of  what  she  had 
heard.  But  I  wasn't  thinking  so  much  about  Cop- 
perhead Kate  as  I  was  about  old  Ezra  Bartlett,  who 
stood  there  blinking  abstractedly  at  the  barrel  of  my 
automatic.  His  body  never  shifted  an  inch  but  his 
eye  followed  my  movements  so  closely  that  it  made 
me  think  of  a  zoo  eagle  blinking  at  a  visitor  on  a 
rainy  day. 

"And  you,  you  weasel-faced  old  rat,"  I  cried  out 
at  him,  hot  with  an  unreasoning  indignation  which 
I  couldn't  control,  "I  want  to  know  what  you're 
doing  about  that  will  you're  trying  to  put  over  on 
this  house !" 

"What  does  she  mean  by  that?"  cut  in  Wendy 
Washburn,  from  his  end  of  the  line.  There  was  a 
note  in  his  voice  that  puzzled  me,  a  note  of  author- 
ity, of  impatience,  as  though  he  had  a  perfect  right 
to  ask  the  question  he  had. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  old  weasel, 
looking  me  straight  in  the  eye.  "For  I  never  saw 
this  young  woman  before  in  my  life !" 


THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        225 

The  quiet  assurance,  the  calm  solemnity,  with 
which  he  made  that  preposterous  statement  rather 
took  my  breath  away.  The  deceit  of  the  old  scoun- 
drel was  incredible.  And  I  felt  sure  it  would  be 
easy  enough  to  prove  that  he  was  telling  anything 
but  the  truth. 

"You  know  that's  a  lie,  don't  you?"  I  challenged, 
turning  to  Alicia  Ledwidge. 

"You  ordered  me  to  keep  out  of  this  family  con- 
ference," she  coolly  retorted,  "and  I  prefer  to  take 
your  advice !" 

I  stepped  in  front  of  Doctor  Klinger. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  me  before?"  I  demanded. 

"Never !"  was  his  somewhat  disquieting  reply. 

The  whole  thing  was  getting  more  and  more  like 
a  nightmare.  I  was  beginning  to  lose  my  perspec- 
tive. And  what  was  more,  my  arms  were  begin- 
ning to  ache  with  the  weight  of  those  two  heavy 
automatics. 

The  man  at  the  end  of  the  line  seemed  to  notice 
this.  I  could  see  him  smile  a  little  as  he  witnessed 
the  palsied  motion  which  my  overstrained  arm- 
muscles  were  giving  to  the  two  pistol-barrels. 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  just  as  well  to  put 
them  down  now?"  he  calmly  inquired. 

"They're  not  going  down  until  you  answer  me  a 


226        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

question  or  two,"  I  told  him.  The  way  in  which  I 
barked  out  those  words  came  as  a  surprise  to  me. 
I  knew  that  I  was  slowly  but  surely  losing  my  sense 
of  humor. 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  know?"  my  deposed 
Hero-Man  was  asking  me. 

"The  first  thing  I  want  to  know  is  where  you  got 
a  key  to  this  house." 

He  looked  up  at  me,  apparently  perplexed. 

"Didn't  you  drop  a  key  into  that  black  bag  of 
yours?"  he  asked. 

"No,  I  didn't.  And  I  don't  believe  you  ever 
found  one  there !" 

"My  dear  young  lady,  you  can  believe  what  you 
like.  But  really,  you  know,  I  don't  carry  pass-keys 
for  every  house  in  Manhattan !" 

"But  you  carried  one  for  this  house !" 

"Which  I  should  never  have  done  if  you  hadn't 
happened  to  be  carrying  the  family  jewels  of  the 
same  place !" 

He  didn't  seem  a  bit  afraid  of  me.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  seemed  to  be  enjoying  some  unknown  joke 
at  my  expense.  He  seemed  to  be  laughing  at  me 
in  his  sleeve,  as  he  had  so  often  done  before.  But 
I  wasn't  playing  second  fiddle,  that  night,  to  any- 
body, and  this  fact  I  intended  to  make  quite  clear 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        227 

to  him,  even  though  I  was  beginning  to  ask  myself 
just  how  much  longer  I  could  keep  those  automatics 
poked  in  their  faces. 

His  own  face  suddenly  grew  serious. 

"And  the  valuables  you  carried  away  from  this 
house  in  that  bag,  I  trust,  are  still  in  that  bag!"  he 
suddenly  flung  out  at  me. 

It  was  more  a  reminder,  I  think,  than  either  a 
challenge  or  a  question.  My  first  impulse  was  to 
resent  it.  But  it  was  really  meant  to  serve,  I  began 
to  see,  as  a  tip  on  the  wing.  It  indirectly  warned 
me  that  the  matter  of  the  club-bag  had  passed  com- 
pletely out  of  my  mind. 

I  remembered,  with  a  sinking  feeling,  that  this 
precious  bag  had  been  dropped  out  through  the  por- 
tieres. And  it  was  not  the  sort  of  thing  one  wanted 
to  leave  lying  about  in  the  dark  on  the  far  side  of  a 
door. 

At  the  same  moment  that  this  fact  came  home  to 
me  I  began  backing  away  from  that  ragged  line  of 
captives,  edging  always  toward  those  heavy  por- 
tieres that  swung  between  me  and  the  next  room. 

A  couple  of  the  figures  in  that  line,  I  noticed,  ex- 
changed glances.  It  was  a  signal  which  might  have 
meant  anything.  But  I  knew  better  than  to  take 
chances.  And  it  pulled  me  up  short. 


228        THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"Any  one  of  you  trying  to  move,"  I  told  them 
with  all  the  show  of  ferocity  I  could  throw  into  the 
words,  "will  get  a  hole  put  through  you  so  quick 
you'll  never  know  what  hit  you !" 

I  could  see  Wendy  Washburn,  at  the  end  of  the 
line,  luxuriate  in  one  of  his  enigmatic  and  momen- 
tary smiles.  But  I  had  no  time  to  worry  over  what 
it  meant.  I  wanted  that  black  club-bag  back  in 
my  hand. 

So  I  continued  to  veer  off  toward  the  portieres, 
very  much  as  Copperhead  Kate  had  done  before  me. 

I  was  taking  no  such  chances,  however,  as  that 
crimson-corniced  lady  of  adventure,  for  as  I  edged 
in  between  the  draperies,  I  advanced  one  hand  with 
the  automatic  poised  and  ready,  keeping  it  always 
ahead  of  me,  just  as  with  the  other  hand  I  contin- 
ued to  menace  the  patient-eyed  row  of  figures  stand- 
ing for  all  the  world  like  an  awkward  squad  at  the 
far  side  of  the  lighted  room. 

In  two  seconds,  I  told  myself,  I  could  be  back  in 
the  lighted  room  with  the  bag  in  my  hand.  And  I 
had  them  too  well  under  cover  to  give  them  any 
chance  for  a  breakaway. 

What  was  more,  I  was  watching  them  every  mo- 
ment of  the  time.  My  eye  was  on  them  even  as  I 
groped  for  the  bag,  found  the  handle,  and  clutched 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        229 

both  the  pistol  and  the  bag-handle  between  the  same 
fingers. 

So  intently  was  I  watching  them,  in  fact,  that  I 
saw  nothing  else  that  was  taking  place  much  closer 
to  me. 

My  first  intimation  of  this  came  with  startling 
unexpectedness.  It  came  in  the  form  of  a  long 
arm  girdling  my  waist,  pinning  my  left  hand  to  my 
side  at  the  same  time  that  it  lifted  me  slightly  off 
my  feet.  And  the  next  moment  my  other  arm  was 
also  in  chancery. 

"It's  all  right!  I've  got  her!"  called  out  a  deep 
bass  voice  close  to  my  ear.  And  startled  as  I  was, 
I  knew  that  it  was  Big  Ben  Locke  himself,  who  had 
spoken. 

I  knew  it  even  before  he  carried  me  kicking  and 
struggling  into  the  lighted  room,  where  that  line  of 
worthies  who'd  been  so  meek  and  motionless  a  min- 
ute before  now  exploded  into  sudden  action.  They 
came  running  and  flocking  about  me,  none  of  them 
exactly  breaking  their  neck  to  hide  their  satisfaction 
at  the  somewhat  undignified  figure  which  I  must 
have  presented. 

"Steady,  my  girl,  steady!"  warned  Big  Ben,  as 
he  held  me  in  a  clutch  that  would  have  done  credit 
to  a  grizzly.  Then  he  proceeded  first  to  take  away 


my  two  automatics,  and  then  the  club-bag  full  of 
loot. 

I  wasn't  so  interested  in  this,  at  the  moment,  as  I 
was  in  the  discovery  that  Copperhead  Kate,  taking 
advantage  of  that  distracting  movement,  had  sidled 
closer  about  to  the  portieres  and  was  creeping  unob- 
served out  through  them.  I  called  to  the  big  hulk 
still  holding  me,  but  he  was  too  intent  on  the  bird  in 
his  hand  to  think  of  the  one  slipping  off  through  the 
bush.  Then  I  twisted  about  and  tried  to  gasp  out  a 
hurried  word  of  warning  to  Wendy  Washburn 
himself. 

But  my  one-time  Hero-Man,  I  discovered,  had 
also  quietly  and  mysteriously  vanished  from  the 
room.  And  I  found  something  in  the  well-timed 
disappearance  of  those  two  figures  which  seemed  to 
crown  my  darkest  suspicions. 

"What'll  we  do  with  her?"  Big  Ben  was  demand- 
ing, a  little  out  of  breath,  for  I  was  still  fighting 
like  a  terrier  to  break  away  from  that  south-paw 
clutch  of  his. 

It  was  the  weasel-eyed  old  Ezra  Bartlett  who  an- 
swered that  question.  He  had  been  stooping  before 
me,  in  a  sort  of  a  crouch,  with  his  claw-like  hands 
over  his  slightly  crooked  knees,  staring  exultantly 
into  my  face.  I'd  been  too  busy  to  give  him  much 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        231 

attention.  But  his  earlier  air  of  querulous  meek- 
ness had  fallen  away  from  him.  And  now  I  could 
see  him  positively  licking  his  chops. 

"We'd  better  lock  her  up  in  the  Lilac  Room,"  he 
announced,  "for  there  are  a  good  many  things, 
young  woman,  you  still  have  to  answer  for !" 

"And  things  we've  all  got  to  know  before  that 
girl  gets  out  of  this  house,"  echoed  old  Brother 
Enoch,  with  a  tremulous  hand  cupped  behind  a 
prominent  ear,  which  made  him  look  like  a  rabbit. 

It  was  then  that  I  twisted  about  and  tried  to  make 
Big  Ben  Locke  listen  to  reason. 

"Chief,"  I  gasped  out  to  him,  "you've  stumbled 
into  one  of  the  biggest  cases  you  ever  struck,  but  for 
the  love  of  heaven,  listen  to  me  before  you  do  any- 
thing!" 

"Listen  to  you!"  he  echoed,  with  a  lip-curl  of 
scorn.  "Didn't  I  have  the  pleasure  of  listenin'  to 
you  for  considerable  time  this  afternoon  ?  And  do 
you  expect  me  to  holler  for  an  encore  on  that  sort 
of  talk?" 

"But  things  have  happened  since  then,"  I  told 
him,  "things  that  change  everything." 

"Yes,  it  sure  looks  like  it,"  he  announced,  as  he 
dropped  my  second  automatic  into  his  pocket. 

"Bring  her  along !"  commanded  Ezra  Bartlett,  in 


232        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

his  squeak  of  a  voice,  as  he  waited  impatiently  at 
the  open  door. 

"Chief,"  I  said  with  all  the  solemnity  I  could  sum- 
mon up,  "there's  been  worse  than  murder  take  place 
in  this  house  to-day!" 

"Yes,  I  sure  saw  you  meant  business  with  those 
two  guns  o'  yours !"  was  his  flippant  retort. 

"But  I  can  explain  every  step  of  that.  I  was  only 
acting  as  any  one  of  your  operatives  would  act  under 
the  circumstances,"  I  said,  as  he  began  to  half  drag 
and  half  carry  me  across  the  room.  For  old  Ezra 
Bartlett  had  repeated  his  impatient  command  that  I 
be  brought  along. 

"But  you're  no  longer  an  operative  of  mine,"  the 
bulky  man  at  my  side  reminded  me.  "And  we  get 
one  every  now  and  then,  you  know,  who  turns  out 
bad!" 

"Then  ask  Wendy  Washburn  who  brought  me 
into  this  house!"  I  told  him,  for  I  was  desperate 
now.  I  was  desperate  enough  to  eat  crow  before 
the  two  of  them. 

"Wendy  Washburn!  Who's  Wendy  Wash- 
burn?"  demanded  my  captor,  staring  about  the 
room.  And  of  course  there  was  no  Wendy  Wash- 
burn  there. 

"He's  a  friend  of  mine,"  I  told  him. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        233 

"You  mean  a  confederate,"  corrected  the  Chief. 
And  I  saw  that  he  didn't  intend  to  give  me  the 
chance  I  was  fighting  for. 

"Then  you're  not  going  to  listen  to  me !"  I  said 
it  in  almost  a  scream,  for  my  nerves  were  on  edge 
and  I  saw  my  last  hope  vanishing. 

"All  I  know,  young  woman,  is  that  you're  under 
arrest.  And  that's  about  all  I  want  to  know  just 
now!"  As  he  said  this  he  brought  my  wrists  to- 
gether with  a  movement  that  was  as  quick  as  it  was 
clever,  and  clicked  a  pair  of  nickeled  handcuffs  over 
them. 

I  stared  down  at  them  rather  stupidly.  It  was 
my  first  experience  with  such  things.  And  it  took 
the  fight  out  of  me,  for  the  moment,  as  completely 
as  the  thump  of  a  night-stick  could. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  me?"  I 
asked,  still  staring  down  at  the  imprisoning  rings  of 
polished  metal. 

"We're  going  to  put  you  where  you'll  be  safe 
until  we  can  get  you,  you  and  one  or  two  others  in 
this  house,  down  to  headquarters!"  Big  Ben  ex- 
plained as  he  followed  the  shifty-eyed  old  weasel  up 
the  stairway. 

I  had  no  choice  in  the  matter.  I  had  to  go.  I 
had  to  submit  to  the  steady  tug  of  that  big  brute  as 


234        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

he.  led  me  down  a  darkened  hallway  and  into  a  room 
which  Ezra  Bartlett  had  already  thrown  open  for 
us. 

"This'll  do!"  announced  Big  Ben,  as  he  ushered 
me  into  that  unlighted  chamber.  Then  he  looked 
over  his  shoulder  to  make  sure  Ezra  Bartlett  wasn't 
within  hearing  distance. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  said  in  a  hurried  whisper. 
"This  is  a  bluff,  remember.  There's  a  mix-up  here 
I've  got  to  get  to  the  bottom  of.  And  if  you  stay 
quiet  in  this  room,  Baddie,  until  I  can  come  and  get 
you,  you'll  be  helping  me  out  of  a  hole !" 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  I  told  him,  between  puffs, 
for  I  was  still  fighting  for  breath. 

"Then  what're  you  going  to  do?"  he  demanded 
in  his  heavy  whisper.  He  was  at  least  a  good  actor. 

"Why  don't  you  listen  to  me,"  I  cried  out  at  him. 
"Why  haven't  you  the  brains  to  see  a  thing  when 
it's  under  your  nose !" 

"Hush !"  he  warned  me,  with  a  glance  toward  the 
door.  "There's  more  under  my  nose  than  you 
imagine.  And  I  can't  explain  things.  You've  just 
got  to  accept  what  I'm  handing  you.  I  want  you  to 
stay  in  this  room  until  you  hear  from  me !" 

His  hand  dropped  from  my  arm,  and  he  was 
across  the  room  before  I  could  realize  it. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        235 

"Until  you  hear  from  me,"  he  repeated  in  a  whis- 
per, as  he  swung  the  door  shut.  The  next  moment 
I  could  catch  the  sound  of  the  key  turning  in  the 
lock. 

I  woke  up  to  the  fact,  as  I  stood  there  in  the  dark- 
ness, that  I  was  crying  a  little,  crying,  I  think,  from 
sheer  exasperation,  from  sheer  helplessness.  And 
I  was  so  tired,  I  remembered,  that  my  joints  ached. 

Those  hundred  and  one  aches  in  my  body,  how- 
ever, weren't  half  so  hard  to  put  up  with  as  that 
misery  of  mind  which  came  from  knowing  that  I 
had  made  a  mess  of  everything.  Every  step  I'd 
taken  had  been  a  mistake.  And  the  memory  of  it 
all  suddenly  made  me  see  red.  For  a  little  while 
there  in  that  unlighted  room  I  wasn't  anything  bet- 
ter than  a  Chatham  Square  anarchist  on  the  ram- 
page. I  think  I  could  have  blown  up  all  New  York 
and  fiddled  over  the  ruins,  like  a  Nero  in  petticoats. 

But  insteadof  blowing  up  all  Manhattan,!  mopped 
my  eyes,  groped  my  way  to  the  wall,  found  a  light- 
switch  and  turned  on  the  electrics. 

It  was  a  very  comfortable-looking  room  to  be  a 
prisoner  in,  but  period  furnishings  weren't  the  sort 
of  thing  I  was  trying  to  get  comfort  out  of. 

I  tried  the  door,  but  that  gave  me  no  hope  of  es- 
cape. Then  I  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  the 


236        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

room  had  no  window.  So  I  went  back  to  the  door 
again.  It  was  very  heavy,  and  securely  locked.  I 
kicked  on  its  panels  with  all  my  force,  but  I  might 
as  well  have  kicked  against  a  brick  wall.  Then  for 
a  minute  or  so  I  must  have  imagined  I  was  a  whirl- 
ing dervish,  for  I  stood  there  pounding  on  the  upper 
panels  with  my  manacled  hands.  It  made  a  good 
deal  of  noise,  and  did  a  good  deal  of  damage  to  the 
highly  polished  woodwork.  But  that  was  the  only 
satisfaction  I  got  out  of  the  performance.  And  I 
was  too  tired  to  waste  energy  as  a  paint-remover, 
once  my  foolish  little  frenzy  had  worn  itself  out.  So 
I  backed  slowly  away  from  the  door,  pondering  just 
what  my  next  move  would  be.  I  stood  there  in  studi- 
ous silence,  trying  to  goad  that  empty  head  of  mine 
into  grasping  an  idea  or  two. 

That  silence  was  suddenly  broken  by  three  low  yet 
distinct  taps  on  the  door  which  I  had  so  recently 
been  pounding.  I  moved  toward  this  door,  wonder- 
ing what  this  signal  might  mean.  Then,  as  I  still 
advanced,  the  lights  suddenly  went  out  and  I  stood 
in  utter  darkness,  with  my  shackled  hands  touching 
the  wall,  gropingly,  for  possible  guidance.  And  as 
I  stood  there  the  key  in  the  door  turned  quietly,  and 
the  door  itself  was  slowly  swung  back. 

It  was  not  swung  entirely  open.     The  light  from 


THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        237 

the  hall  without  was  quite  dim.  But  for  one  shad- 
owy moment  I  caught  sight  of  a  shadowy  figure  in 
white.  It  seemed  to  be  the  figure  of  a  young 
woman.  The  face  of  this  figure  during  that  brief 
view,  appeared  to  be  as  white  as  the  floating  white  of 
the  clothing  she  wore.  She  did  not  speak. 

Before  she  disappeared,  however,  one  thin  white 
hand  was  stretched  forward,  toward  me,  I  thought 
at  the  time,  and  was  then  withdrawn.  The  next 
moment  I  heard  the  tinkle  of  metal  on  the  hardwood 
floor  at  my  feet.  I  looked  down,  quickly.  As  I  did 
so  the  door  swung  shut.  A  moment  later  the  elec- 
trics flowered  into  light,  controlled  apparently  by 
some  switch  outside  the  room.  And  I  stood  there 
feeling  exactly  as  Horatio  must  have  felt  that  night 
in  front  of  Elsinore  Castle  when  the  ghost  of  Ham- 
let's father  gave  him  the  once  over. 

"Baddie,"  I  said  to  myself  out  loud,  "either  you're 
seeing  things  again  or  there's  something  around  this 
house  that's  escaped  the  undertaker!" 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

I  STOOD  in  the  center  of  my  ponderously  fur- 
nished room  which  was  in  reality  a  ponderously 
fortified  cell,  trying  to  argue  the  matter  of  that 
apparition  out  with  myself. 

It  was  not  the  first  thing  of  the  kind  that  had 
confronted  me  that  night.  I  had  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  ghostly  head  that  had  appeared  for  a  moment 
above  the  stair-railing.  Later  on,  I  had  walked 
past  the  apparition  of  Bud  Griswold  in  the  driving 
rain.  And  Copperhead  Kate  had  declared  that  a 
specter  had  slipped  into  the  room  of  the  four-poster 
and  dropped  an  automatic  at  her  side,  before  van- 
ishing. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  it  all?  Who  was  the 
white- faced  wanderer  loitering  so  anxious-eyed 
about  the  house  of  mysteries?  And  why  was  she 
so  afraid  of  being  seen?  And  who  knew  of  her 
presence  there  ?  And  what  had  that  to  do  with  the 
disappearance  of  the  dead  girl  who  had  so  mysteri- 
ously and  disturbingly  vanished  into  thin  air?  And, 
above  all,  what  was  Wendy  Washburn's  interest  in 

238 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        239 

those  movements?  And  what  part  in  that  tangled 
drama  of  intrigue  could  the  calm-eyed  Alicia  Led- 
widge  be  playing? 

These  were  questions  which  I  found  it  impossible 
to  answer.  My  head  was  in  too  much  of  a  whirl 
even  to  thresh  over  them,  one  by  one,  until  some 
grain  of  truth  was  shaken  from  all  that  meaning- 
less chaff.  Then,  more  to  regain  a  grip  on  myself, 
and  get  the  thought  of  all  such  specters  out  of  my 
mind,  I  crossed  to  the  door  and  started  to  look  about 
for  the  bit  of  metal  which  I  remembered  had  fallen 
there,  or  had  seemed  to  fall  there. 

I  found  it  lying  on  the  highly  waxed  parquet- 
flooring,  close  beside  one  of  the  rugs.  It  was  a 
key,  small  but  strong,  and  of  odd  shape,  and  it  was 
of  polished  nickel,  as  bright  as  the  metal  circles 
about  my  wrist. 

That  common  brightness,  in  fact,  gave  me  an 
idea.  I  held  the  key  in  my  teeth,  raised  my  hands 
and  twisted  them  about.  The  key,  I  found,  fitted 
the  hand-cuffs.  And  with  one  turn  of  it  I  had  them 
unlocked,  and  my  hands  were  once  more  free. 

The  next  moment  I  ran  to  the  door.  It  was  still 
unlocked,  though  the  key  remained  in  its  place.  But 
what  caught  my  attention  was  a  bundle  of  clothing 
which  lay  on  the  floor,  close  to  the  door. 


240        THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

I  gave  a  gasp  of  astonishment,  of  relief,  as  I 
stared  down  at  them.  For  I  recognized  that  little 
pile  as  my  lost  clothing,  from  shoes  to  hat  and 
gloves.  That  ghost,  whatever  her  motives,  was  at 
least  a  most  obliging  one. 

I  looked  up  and  down  the  hall,  wonderingly,  try- 
ing to  fathom  what  good  angel  could  be  ordering 
specters  about  on  my  behalf.  But  nothing  was  in 
sight.  The  house  stood  as  gloomy  and  silent  as  a 
tomb.  And  the  mystery  of  it  all  still  hung  close 
about  me,  like  a  harbor  fog  on  a  November  night. 

I  caught  up  that  welcome  bundle,  however,  took 
the  key  from  the  outside  of  the  door,  and  retreated 
within  my  guard-room,  carefully  locking  myself  in. 
Then  I  peeled  off  Copperhead  Kate's  ill-fitting  ap- 
parel, kicked  off  the  over-sized  suede  shoes,  and 
thankfully  and  triumphantly  donned  my  own  humble 
duds.  Then  I  took  a  deep  breath,  a  breath  of  de- 
liverance, shot  through  with  gratitude,  for  whatever 
troubles  or  dangers  might  still  await  me  before  I 
once  more  made  my  way  back  to  the  world,  I  felt 
that  I  had  a  fresh  grip  on  life,  a  forlorn  rag  or  two 
of  dignity  which  that  frantic  night  had  not  alto- 
gether torn  away  from  me. 

But  I  did  not  linger  to  luxuriate  in  this  feeling, 
since  I  was  all  the  time  being  swayed  by  a  much 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        24i 

stronger  one.  I  wanted  to  get  away  from  that 
house,  and  get  away  from  it  for  good. 

So  I  crept  over  to  the  door,  took  the  key  from  the 
lock,  and  stepped  outside.  There  was  no  one  in 
sight. 

I  may  have  been  excited,  at  that  prospect  of  es- 
cape, but  I  was  not  too  excited  to  remember  that 
it  would  be  better  not  to  be  recognized  as  I  left  that 
house.  So  I  slipped  back  into  the  room,  found 
Copperhead  Kate's  heavy  veil,  knotted  it  about  my 
hat  and  fastened  it  there  by  a  couple  of  hair-pins. 

Then  I  crept  out  through  the  door  again,  relocked 
it  and  pocketed  the  key.  I  could  hear  my  own 
heart  beating  as  I  moved  slowly  forward,  step  by 
step,  toward  the  stair-head.  I  lifted  my  veil  and 
stood  there  listening,  to  make  sure  that  the  coast 
was  still  clear,  for  on  this  occasion  I  preferred  to 
have  no  interruptions,  either  earthly  or  unearthly. 

As  I  stood  there,  straining  my  ears,  a  faint  mur- 
mur of  voices  came  to  me.  This  sound  seemed  to 
come  from  behind  a  closed  door,  somewhere  deeper 
in  the  house.  It  should  have  proved  a  disturbing 
sound  to  me.  But  instead  of  hurrying  my  steps,  for 
some  reason,  it  halted  them.  I  crept  about  the  stair- 
head and  groped  my  way  along  the  wall,  listening 
from  time  to  time  as  the  sounds  grew  clearer. 


242       THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

Then,  as  I  padded  along  the  panels  of  a  closed 
door,  I  realized  that  the  talking  was  taking  place  in 
the  room  before  me.  The  next  moment  I  had  my 
ear  pressed  flat  against  that  panel,  and  I  knew  at 
once  that  it  was  old  Theobald  Scripps  who  was 
speaking.  There  was  no  mistaking  those  smooth 
and  unctuous  accents. 

"But  if  there's  been  a  murder  committed  in  this 
house,  somebody  must  have  done  it!" 

"Well,  who  did  it?"  demanded  a  querulous  voice 
which  at  once  made  me  think  of  Enoch  Bartlett. 

"Why,  don't  you  understand,"  retorted  the  old 
lawyer,  impressively  lowering  his  voice,  "that  it  was 
this  street-girl  who  did  it  ?  Don't  you  see  that  every 
reasonable  evidence  points  to  her  as  the  guilty 
party?" 

It  was  plainly  old  Ezra  Bartlett  who  spoke  next. 

"That's  easy  enough  to  say.  But  how  are  we 
going  to  hitch  that  particular  crime  on  that  particu- 
lar girl?  How  are  we  ever  going  to  frame  up  a 
case  that'll  hold  good?" 

"The  case  is  already  complete,"  contended  the 
voice  of  the  old  attorney.  "We've  got  the  girl  here, 
where  we  want  her.  What  brought  her  here  is  our 
own  business.  What  she  did  in  this  house  will  stand 
against  her.  For  who  will  accept  the  story  that 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        243 

she'll  try  to  tell?  Who'll  swallow  the  explanation 
of  how  she  first  gained  admission  here?" 

"Explanations  be  damned !"  piped  the  angry  voice 
of  old  Enoch  Bartlett.  "We  don't  want  explana- 
tions! What  we  want  is  a  will,  sir,  a  will  duly 
signed  and  witnessed  by  Clarissa  Rhinelander  Bart- 
lett!" 

"Of  course  you  do,"  acknowledged  the  other. 
"But  you  don't  also  want  ten  years  in  state's  prison, 
do  you?  If  you  do,  sir,  simply  continue  along  the 
path  you  have  been  following!  For  there's  a  mud- 
dle here  that's  got  to  be  cleared  up  before  any  man 
in  this  room  can  feel  clear  to  leave  this  house !" 

"Fiddlesticks!"  ejaculated  Enoch  Bartlett. 

"But  who  got  us  into  that  muddle?"  demanded 
his  brother  Ezra. 

"That  girl  did,  of  course !" 

"Then  that  girl's  got  to  pay  for  it!  She's  had 
her  fun,  by  gad,  and  now  she  can  face  the  music !" 

"And  we've  got  Locke,  haven't  we,  to  back  us 
up  in  anything  we  claim?"  demanded  the  other 
shrill-voiced  old  rascal.  "And  there's  Klinger  here, 
to  do  the  same !" 

That  talk  was  none  too  lucid  to  me,  but  there 
were  a  few  features  about  it  that  kept  my  ear  glued 
to  the  door  panel.  For  I  knew  as  I  listened  that  it 


244        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

was  me,  Little  Me,  they  were  talking  about.  And 
it  wasn't  exactly  the  sort  of  conversation  that  you 
make  soothing-sirup  out  of.  I  may  have  been  tired 
in  body,  but  I  was  awake  to  the  finger-tips  as  I 
stood  there  in  the  darkness  overhearing  that  star- 
chamber  discussion  as  to  how  I  was  to  be  disposed 
of. 

"But  what  about  this  man  Washburn?"  I  heard 
Enoch  Bartlett's  voice  inquire.  I  waited,  without 
breathing,  to  catch  the  answer  to  that  question. 

"Washburn?"  scoffed  the  old  lawyer.  "'Why,  my 
personal  conviction  is  that  Washburn  is  the  man 
who's  duping  us  all,  and  that  he's  a  bigger  crook 
than  the  woman  herself !" 

"It's  not  a  matter  of  conviction,"  broke  in  Doctor 
Klinger's  heavily  contemptuous  voice.  "It's  a  mat- 
ter of  common  knowledge,  a  matter  of  fact!" 

"What  is?"  bit  out  Ezra  Bartlett. 

"That  this  man  Washburn  is  nothing  but  a  social 
highwayman !  That  he  lives  by  his  wits !" 

"Of  which  he  has  more,  apparently,  than  a  num- 
ber of  people  in  this  immediate  neighborhood," 
piped  out  the  irate  Enoch  Bartlett. 

"But  which  of  those  two  women  was  working 
with  Washburn?"  demanded  the  more  practical- 
minded  of  the  two  old  brothers. 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        245 

"The  woman  who  brought  him  back  to  the  house 
— the  baby- faced  one!  We've  got  to  get  her  taken 
care  of,  and  it  has  got  to  be  for  life!"  announced 
that  venomous  old  attorney  as  calmly  as  though  he 
was  talking  of  doing  away  with  a  house-cat.  "And 
if  there's  any  doubt  about  taking  care  of  her  that 
way,  we'll  have  to  take  care  of  her  the  other  way !" 

"Hoity-toity!"  I  breathed  against  that  polished 
hardwood  panel.  But  in  spite  of  myself  I  could 
feel  a  little  scramble  of  chills  go  up  and  down  my 
backbone.  Then  a  still  sharper  needling  of  nerve- 
ends  ran  like  an  electric  shock  about  my  body,  for 
close  behind  me,  in  the  darkness,  I  caught  the  sound 
of  a  softly  moving  figure. 

My  eyes  were  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  by 
this  time,  and  as  I  stood  flat  in  the  shelter  of  the 
heavy  door-frame  I  could  make  out  a  vague  Some- 
thing grope  slowly  past  me.  A  faint  rustling  of 
skirts  told  me  that  this  something  was  a  woman. 
She  had  groped  by  me  without  becoming  conscious 
of  my  presence  there,  I  felt  sure,  because  there  had 
been  no  pause  in  her  steady  advance.  All  her  at- 
tention, in  fact,  seemed  centered  on  making  her 
passage  along  those  darkened  walls  a  silent  one. 
And  I  did  my  best,  as  I  followed  her,  to  keep  my 
movements  equally  silent. 


246        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

It  was  not  until  she  approached  the  vague  half- 
light  from  the  stair-well  that  I  could  even  venture 
a  guess  as  to  her  identity.  Then,  as  she  peered 
anxiously  down  this  well,  I  saw  that  it  was  Alicia 
Ledwidge.  And  what  startled  me  most,  as  she  took 
her  flight  down  that  all  but  lightless  stairway,  was 
that  she  carried  a  black  club-bag  in  her  hand. 

The  shock  of  this,  however,  was  submerged  in  a 
still  greater  shock,  as  a  little  wave  is  swamped  by 
a  bigger  one.  The  situation,  I  realized,  was  not  so 
simple  as  it  seemed.  For  as  that  stealthy  figure 
of  the  trained  nurse  crept  cautiously  down  the  stair- 
way I  noticed  that  it  was  being  followed  by  another 
figure,  equally  stealthy. 

Who  or  what  this  second  stalker  was  I  could  not 
make  out.  I  merely  surmised  that  it  must  be  a  man, 
since  the  second  creeping  shadow  plainly  bulked 
heavier  and  higher  than  the  first.  But  it  followed 
on  after  the  other,  step  by  step,  with  a  sort  of  tim- 
ber-wolf intentness  that  sorely  tempted  me  to 
scream  out  a  call  of  warning. 

Instead  of  doing  that  altogether  unwise,  if  nat- 
ural, thing,  however,  I  crept  on  to  the  stair-railing 
and  followed  after  them.  For  the  second  moving 
shadow,  I  noticed,  had  drawn  closer  to  the  first. 

It  must  have  been  at  the  exact  moment  the  woman 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        247 

reached  the  floor  below  that  the  man  following  her 
made  his  spring.  It  was  a  sudden  spring,  but  it  was 
almost  noiseless.  And  equally  silent  seemed  the 
brief  struggle  that  took  place  there  in  the  darkness. 

I  could  hear  a  faint  gasp,  more  of  pain  than  of 
fear,  a  sound  of  quickened  breathing,  and  an  even 
fainter  sound  of  contending  bodies.  Then  came  a 
quiet  thud,  a  thud  that  was  more  a  vibration  than 
a  sound,  and  the  louder  note  of  hurrying  steps  pass- 
ing from  muffling  rug  to  the  polished  hardwood 
floor. 

Then  still  again,  and  with  equal  abruptness,  the 
unexpected  happened.  Those  hurrying  steps  were 
not  half-way  across  the  wide  hall  before  the  entire 
place  flowered  into  sudden  light. 

At  the  same  moment  I  beheld  Wendy  Washburn 
with  the  forefinger  of  his  left  hand  pressed  against 
a  button-switch  in  the  wall.  In  his  right  hand,  I 
noticed,  he  held  a  heavy  walking-stick.  He  held  it 
obliquely  across  his  shoulder,  as  a  marching  soldier 
carries  a  rifle.  I  surmised,  from  his  attitude,  that  it 
was  poised  there,  in  position  for  striking.  But  I 
was  no  longer  watching  Wendy  Washburn  and  his 
walking-stick.  My  eye  had  traveled  on  to  the  man 
in  the  checked  tweed  suit  with  the  black  club-bag.  I 
could  see  him  distinctly,  in  the  clear  light  below  me, 


248        THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

as  he  leaped  for  the  street  door.  I  knew,  even  be- 
fore I  saw  his  face,  that  it  was  Pinky  McClone. 

He  did  not  go  to  the  door.  He  knew,  apparently, 
that  it  was  too  late.  He  seemed  to  realize  that  he 
had  a  fight  to  face,  before  he  could  achieve  his  free- 
dom, for  he  dropped  the  club-bag  and  swung  about 
as  Wendy  Washburn  edged  in  between  him  and  his 
iron-grilled  avenue  of  escape. 

He  swung  about  without  hesitation  and  quite  with- 
out fear.  At  the  first  sight  of  my  Hero-Man,  in  fact, 
a  hunger  for  combat  seemed  to  seize  him.  It  was  as 
though  Pinky,  in  beholding  that  opponent  of  his, 
beheld  an  old  and  implacable  enemy.  And  he  went 
at  that  enemy  as  though  there  were  a  good  many 
ancient  scores  to  be  wiped  out. 

It  wasn't  a  long  fight,  but  it  was  a  bitter  one,  and 
at  the  very  beginning  of  it  the  walking-stick  went 
clattering  across  the  polished  floor,  so  that  it  soon 
became  a  contest  of  strength  against  strength. 

I  was  so  interested  in  that  fight  that  I  kept  creep- 
ing farther  and  farther  down  the  stairway,  a  step 
at  a  time,  with  my  eyes  staring  and  my  heart  in  my 
mouth.  And  there  was  no  division  of  sympathy  on 
my  part.  I  knew  exactly  how  I  wanted  that  fight 
to  go.  They  may  have  both  been  criminals,  those 
two,  but  they  were  as  far  apart  in  their  make-up,  it 


THE    HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE        249 

seemed  to  me,  as  one  pole  is  from  the  other.  And 
it  wasn't  the  brawnier  man  that  I  wanted  to  win. 

But  I  noticed,  with  a  gulp,  that  this  same  brawn- 
ier man  was  doing  what  most  brawny  men  do,  under 
the  circumstances.  He  was  getting  the  better  of  it ; 
he  was,  in  fact,  skilfully  and  deliberately  sparring 
for  his  coup  de  grace.  I  saw  that  Wendy  Wash- 
burn  was  going  to  get  his,  as  my  old  friend  Myrtle 
would  have  said.  I  saw  that  he  was  going  down  to 
defeat,  ignominious  and  inevitable  defeat,  by  way 
of  the  knock-out  route.  And  being  a  woman,  I 
promptly  and  actively  interfered  in  what  seemed  to 
me  an  altogether  unfair  struggle.  I  interfered  by 
catching  up  the  walking-stick  that  lay  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  poising  it  above  my  head  as  I  ran  forward 
and  bringing  it  down  on  Pinky  McClone's  thick 
skull  just  above  his  big  pink  ear. 

He  went  down  like  a  bag  of  feathers. 

I  stood  staring  at  him.  I  stood,  wide-eyed,  look- 
ing down  at  his  suddenly  humbled  strength,  won- 
dering what  they'd  do  with  this  second  body  in  that 
house  of  horrors. 

Then  Wendy  Washburn,  who'd  been  wiping  the 
blood  off  his  face,  where  his  lip  was  cut,  got  back 
enough  breath  to  cry  out  a  quiet  "Thank  God." 

"What  for?"  I  asked  him  sharply,  almost  accus- 


250        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

ingly,  for  my  teeth  were  doing  a  fox-trot  of  pure 
panic  by  this  time.  "For  killing  that  man?" 

Wendy  snorted  aloud  as  he  caught  up  the  club- 
bag. 

"That  man's  not  dead,"  he  calmly  announced. 
"But  we  may  be,  if  we're  not  out  of  this  house 
pretty  soon!" 

I  felt  a  little  thrill,  a  wayward  little  thrill  of  some- 
thing that  was  both  pride  and  pleasure,  at  hearing 
him  bracket  me  with  himself  in  even  a  common 
danger.  It  wasn't  the  mere  thought  of  escape  as  I 
watched  him  unlatch  the  door,  that  brought  a  wave 
of  relief  through  all  my  tired  body.  It  was  more 
the  thought  of  having  some  one  else  beside  me,  of 
having  at  least  something  which  might  be  construed 
as  a  confederate,  of  knowing  that  I  was  no  longer 
acting  entirely  alone  in  all  that  tangled  maze. 

My  Hero-Man  opened  the  street  door  and  peered 
out.  Then  he  motioned  for  me  to  follow  him. 

But  I  couldn't  help  glancing  back  over  my  shoul- 
der, in  the  hope  of  beholding  some  reassuring  sign 
of  life  from  the  inert  Pinky  McClone.  Instead  of 
seeing  Pinky  McClone,  however,  I  saw  an  altogether 
different  figure.  It  was  a  ghost-like  figure  staring 
down  from  the  gloom  at  the  head  of  the  wide  stair- 
way. It  stared  down  with  a  look  of  wistful  trouble 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        251 

in  its  hollow  eyes,  and  as  I  peered  back  at  the  white 
face  which  seemed  to  be  floating  in  space  I  knew 
that  it  was  Bud  Griswold's  face  that  I  had  seen 
again. 

"Get  me  out  o'  here !"  I  gasped  to  Wendy  Wash- 
burn  as  he  held  the  street  door  open  for  me. 

It  was  an  altogether  unnecessary  remark,  for  he 
was  already  doing  exactly  what  I  had  commanded 
him  to  do.  I  scarcely  noticed  him,  in  fact,  when  he 
stopped  short  and  stared  about  in  the  driving  rain. 

"My  car's  gone !"  I  heard  him  gasp. 

"What  difference  does  it  make?"  I  rather  stupidly 
asked,  for  my  mind,  just  at  that  moment,  wasn't  on 
automobiles. 

"It  means  that  we'll  have  to  take  a  taxicab,"  he 
said  with  a  short  laugh,  as  he  linked  his  free  arm  in 
mine  and  we  started  westward  over  the  wet  side- 
walk, with  heads  down,  against  the  driving  rain. 
But  I  kept  looking  back  to  make  sure  that  a  ghostly 
face  wasn't  floating  in  the  air  just  over  my  left 
shoulder. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

I  NEVER  could  remember  much  about  that  ride  of 
mine  with  Wendy  Washburn  through  the  rain.  I 
don't  know  just  where  we  were  when  he  hailed  a 
passing  taxicab,  and  I  don't  know  just  where  that 
taxicab  took  us. 

But  I  do  remember  that  the  damp  upholstery  of 
the  taxi  was  very  smelly,  and  that  the  door-windows 
rattled,  and  that  the  wheel  chains  kept  slapping 
against  the  fenders  with  a  sort  of  tick-tock  rhythm 
that  made  my  eyelids  droop.  I  also  seem  to  remem- 
ber Wendy  Washburn  passed  the  driver  a  twenty- 
dollar  bill,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,  which  the  man  in 
the  wet  waterproof  coolly  and  casually  accepted. 

I  think  we  must  have  had  the  city  pretty  much  to 
ourselves  during  the  midnight  drive  through  one 
deserted  street  after  another,  for,  by  the  way  we 
skidded  about  corners  and  pounded  over  car-tracks, 
I  knew  we  were  traveling  a  little  faster  than  the 
law  allows.  But  my  bag  of  sensation  had  been 
shaken  out.  I  no  longer  reacted  to  what  was  taking 
place  around  me.  I  don't  think  an  eighteen-inch  gun 

252 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE       253 

could  have  startled  me.  Yet  I  remember  my  Hero- 
Man  looking  back  over  his  shoulder  and  then  calling 
out  for  our  driver  to  go  faster.  And  I  rather  drows- 
ily asked  him  why  we  were  careening  around  the 
city  that  way,  like  a  cat  having  a  fit  in  a  flat-kitchen. 

"Because  we're  being  followed!"  was  Wendy 
Washburn's  reply;  but  even  that  statement  didn't 
altogether  waken  my  interest. 

"But  who's  following  us  ?"  I  sleepily  inquired,  as 
I  tried  to  edge  down  into  a  more  comfortable  corner 
of  the  damp  upholstery. 

"I  don't  know,  for  sure,"  said  the  man  beside  me, 
"but  I  do  know  for  sure  that  it  will  be  better  for 
them  not  to  get  up  with  us !" 

"What'll  they  do  to  us?"  I  weakly  inquired,  as  we 
skidded  against  the  curb-stone  with  a  jolt  and  went 
racing  on  again. 

"Don't  talk — you're  too  tired!"  said  the  man  at 
my  side.  I  think  he  said  it  crossly.  But  I  didn't 
even  worry  about  it.  For  the  next  minute  he  was 
speaking  much  louder,  and  much  more  crossly  to 
the  driver  in  the  front  seat 

"They're  gaining  on  us!"  he  called  out,  and  I 
could  feel  the  cab  respond  to  the  driver's  dab  at 
the  throttle-lever.  I  could  feel  his  old  rattle-trap 
leap  forward  and  go  rocking  and  lurching  along  the 


254       THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

wet  pavement.  Then  we  took  a  turn,  with  two 
wheels  up  on  the  sidewalk,  and  doubled  for  what 
must  have  been  Central  Park.  A  policeman  in  a 
shiny  waterproof  shouted  at  us  as  we  swept  down 
across  the  Plaza.,  I  know ;  but  we  never  stopped. 

"Keep  it  up,"  I  could  hear  Wendy  Washburn  call 
out  as  we  turned  westward  again. 

"I  can't  keep  it  up !"  the  driver  called  back.  "My 
gas  is  running  low !" 

"Then  slow  down  enough  at  Symond's  to  let  us 
drop  off,"  my  Hero-Man  called  back,  after  a  mo- 
ment's thought,  "but  don't  stop!" 

He  was  staring  back,  apparently  to  make  sure  the 
lights  of  the  car  behind  us  hadn't  yet  turned  the 
corner,  when  we  shuddered  down  to  almost  a  stand- 
still. We  were,  I  think,  somewhere  in  the  west 
Fifties,  between  Sixth  and  Seventh  Avenue.  The 
man  beside  me  was  on  his  feet,  with  the  door  open, 
before  I  woke  up  to  what  he  intended  doing. 

"Quick,"  he  called,  as  he  caught  me  by  the  arm. 

I  stumbled  out  after  him.  In  his  right  hand,  I 
noticed  he  still  carried  the  black  club-bag.  With  his 
left  hand  he  swung  me  across  the  wet  sidewalk  and 
pushed  me  in  through  a  door. 

I  stood  blinking  about  what  must  have  been  a 
public  garage,  with  rows  of  cars,  and  black  iron  pil- 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        255 

lars,  and  oil-stains  on  the  floor.  Then  I  discovered 
that  I  was  alone.  It  worried  me  a  little  to  find  that 
Wendy  Washburn  was  no  longer  at  my  side.  But 
the  next  moment  I  saw  him  and  another  man  run 
to  one  of  the  cars  standing  there.  Two  huge  doors, 
at  the  same  time,  swung  open  at  the  far  end  of  the 
garage,  which  must  have  reached  through  to  the 
next  street. 

I  remember  my  Hero-Man  helping  me  up  into  this 
car,  which  was  a  roadster  with  very  high-backed 
seats.  The  next  moment  he  was  there  beside  me, 
with  the  club-bag  between  his  knees,  and  we  were 
slithering  over  the  oily  floor  and  across  the  wet  side- 
walk with  a  purposeful  thump  of  tires  that  plainly 
announced  we  were  still  out  to  play  ducks  and 
drakes  with  the  speed  laws. 

I  found  the  well-padded  seat  of  this  second  car 
much  more  to  my  liking.  I  seemed  to  fit  into  it  as 
though  I  had  been  made  for  it,  or  it  made  for  me. 

I  don't  know  how  long  I'd  sat  there,  trying  to 
hold  my  head  up,  when  I  heard  Wendy  Washburn 
say :  "I  think  we've  given  them  the  slip!" 

I  don't  think  I  was  really  much  interested.  I 
was  too  tired  to  care.  I  must,  indeed,  have  fallen 
asleep  during  a  good  part  of  that  journey,  though  I 
nursed  a  hazy  recollection  of  leaving  the  city  behind 


256        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

us.  of  mounting  hills  and  going  down  them  again,  of 
crossing  bridges  and  rocking  over  car-rails. 

I  woke  up  with  a  start  as  we  went  speeding 
through  a  sleepy-looking  little  town.  I  woke  up  to 
the  repeated  crack  of  a  revolver,  for,  as  I  found 
out  later,  we'd  nearly  run  down  a  rube  constable 
who  tried  to  stop  us  by  shooting  at  our  tires.  I 
remember  wakening  and  staring  at  the  man  beside 
me,  bent  so  intently  over  the  wheel.  For  a  moment 
I  thought  it  was  Bud  Griswold.  Then  my  Hero- 
Man  himself  called  out  for  me  to  sit  low,  in  case 
one  of  that  village  policeman's  pot-shots  should  ac- 
cidentally come  my  way. 

I  realized,  as  I  sat  there  blinking  up  at  him,  that 
I'd  at  least  been  under  fire,  that  I'd  heard  bullets 
whistle  by  my  ears  and  that  thereafter  I  could  look 
upon  myself  as  a  veteran. 

The  whole  situation,  in  fact,  struck  me  as  being 
so  absurd  that  I  suddenly  began  to  laugh. 

The  man  at  my  side  was  plainly  disturbed  at  that 
laugh.  As  we  were  well  out  in  the  open  country 
again,  he  slowed  down  the  car  and  gave  me  a  quick 
side-glance  over  his  shoulder. 

"So  you're  one  too!"  I  said,  as  I  sat  staring 
through  the  rain-drops  crawling  like  worms  down 
the  wind-shield. 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        257 

"One  what?"  he  demanded. 

"The  same  as  I  am,"  I  replied,  suddenly  dreading 
to  use  the  ugly  word  which  had  risen  to  my  lips. 

"I'm  worse !"  he  avowed,  as  he  speeded  up  again. 

"You're  at  least  a  good  driver,"  I  admitted.  For 
we  had  traveled  far  and  fast  that  night.  If  the  next 
turn  of  the  road  had  showed  us  the  blue  waters  of 
Lake  Ontario  I  don't  think  I'd  have  blinked  an  eye. 

"You  have  to  be  a  good  driver,  in  this  business," 
my  Hero-Man  finally  retorted. 

But  even  that  open  acknowledgment  of  his  evil 
ways  didn't  disturb  me.  If  your  thirteenth  blue- 
point  never  tastes  good,  as  some  wise  cynic  has  ob- 
served, it's  equally  true  that  your  thirteenth  nervous 
shock  in  one  night  isn't  going  to  come  like  a  thun- 
der-clap. 

But  we  still  speeded  along  that  unknown  road. 
And  I  began  to  be  languidly  interested  in  our  equally 
unknown  destination. 

"But  where  do  we  happen  to  be  going?"  I  mildly 
inquired.  I  could  see  the  stars  shining  through  a 
rift  in  the  clouds.  It  was  no  longer  raining. 

Wendy  Washburn  turned  his  head  and  looked  at 
me. 

"Watch  your  road,"  I  reminded  him.  The  old 
half-quizzical  smile  was  once  more  on  his  face  as 


258        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

he  righted  the  car  and  missed  a  telegraph  pole  by  a 
few  inches. 

"Where  would  you  like  to  go  ?"  he  asked. 

I  leaned  back  in  the  well-upholstered  seat. 

"I'd  just  like  to  keep  on  going — forever,"  I 
told  him. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I'm  tired." 

"Very  tired?"  he  asked. 

"Terribly,"  I  admitted. 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  I  could  feel  my 
eyelids  once  more  beginning  to  droop. 

"I'm  going  to  take  you  where  you  can  have  a 
good  sleep,"  he  finally  told  me. 

"Thanks,"  I  said.    "And  then  what?" 

"That  question  we  can't  answer  until  to-mor- 
row." 

I  could  see  the  Hudson  shining  in  the  clear  star- 
light. I  could  see  wooded  hills,  and  the  vague  line 
of  a  stone  wall.  We  turned  suddenly  to  the  left, 
went  down  a  winding  lane,  and  swept  in  close  to 
two  gate-pillars  that  seemed  to  be  covered  with  ivy. 

As  we  did  so  the  man  at  my  side  switched  out  his 
head-lights.  Then,  after  a  moment's  deliberation, 
he  shut  them  all  off.  He  brought  the  car  to  a  stop, 
stepped  out  and  seemed  to  be  fumbling  with  the 


THE  HOUSE  OF  INTRIGUE     259 

huge  lock  which  I  could  just  discern  at  the  center 
of  a  pair  of  massive  iron  gates.  A  moment  later 
he  had  the  gates  swung  open  and  was  tooling  the  car 
slowly  in  past  them.  Then  he  again  stepped  out, 
closed  the  gates,  locked  them,  and  climbed  into  the 
seat  beside  me. 

We  went  along  very  slowly,  this  time,  and  he 
kept  peering  ahead  through  the  darkness.  We  were 
no  longer  crunching  over  a  hard  roadway,  I  noticed, 
but  weaving  our  way  in  past  tree-trunks  and  shrub- 
bery over  the  close-cut  grass  of  a  lawn.  I  could 
see  dimly  outlined  flower-beds,  and  borders  of 
bushes.  Then  we  swung  in  under  the  branches 
of  a  huge  tree,  pushing  our  way  in  past  screening 
shrubbery  that  brushed  the  side  of  the  car.  Then 
we  came  to  a  stop. 

"Where  are  you  taking  me?"  I  asked,  as  I  sat 
up  and  tried  to  stare  out  through  the  leafy  silence 
that  suddenly  enisled  us.  In  the  distance,  toward 
the  river,  I  could  just  make  out  the  vague  gray  pile 
of  a  house.  It  seemed  very  big.  It  also  seemed  to 
have  many  gables. 

"Where  are  you  taking  me?"  I  repeated  in  my 
best  Bertha-The-Beautiful-Cloak-Model  tones,  as 
Wendy  Washburn  stepped  down  out  of  the  car. 

"To  the  Big  House  up  the  River !"  responded  my 


260        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

Hero-Man,  with  the  faintest  sound  of  a  laugh.  And 
he  stood  waiting  to  help  me  alight. 

It  was  my  turn  to  laugh  as  I  stepped  down  beside 
him.  For  there  isn't  a  law-breaker  on  all  Manhat- 
tan Island,  I  suppose,  who  doesn't  know  the  Big 
House  up  the  River  to  be  the  other  name  for  Sing 
Sing  itself. 

"I  thought  I  was  headed  for  something  like  that !" 
I  told  him.  •  He  leaned  close,  and  peered  into  my 
face,  as  though  my  flippancy  rather  puzzled  him. 
Then  he  led  me  cautiously  out  through  the  tangle 
of  wet  shrubbery,  stopping  and  peering  ahead  every 
few  steps.  We  were  quite  close  to  that  vague  and 
shadowy  house  by  this  time. 

"This  place  is  as  empty  as  a  church,"  he  explained 
to  me  in  a  lowered  voice,  "and  I  want  you  to  wait 
here  until  I  open  it  up." 

"How?"  I  demanded. 

He  showed  me  a  bar  of  metal.  He  explained  that 
it  was  the  handle  that  fitted  into  the  socket  of  a 
mo  tor- jack. 

"I'll  jimmy  one  of  the  windows  open,"  he  calmly 
announced.  "Then  I'll  come  back  for  you!" 

The  next  moment  he  was  gone.  I  was  too  tired 
to  think  what  to  do,  or  what  I  ought  to  do.  I  merely 
stood  there,  waiting,  in  no  way  amazed  that  my 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE       261 

one-time  Hero-Man  was  at  that  moment  engaged 
in  jimmying  his  way  into  an  empty  summer-home. 
And  it  seemed  to  take  him  a  very  long  time.  Bud,  I 
remembered,  would  have  done  the  job  in  one  quarter 
of  what  it  took  my  new  confederate. 

"Come  on !"  he  whispered,  as  he  led  me  toward 
the  side  of  the  house.  A  door  stood  open,  but  no 
lights  showed  behind  it.  I  wasn't  thinking  much 
about  lights,  however.  I  was  thinking  more  about 
a  bed,  a  big  wide  bed  with  an  Ostermoor  and  a  duck- 
feather  pillow  or  two,  and  ten  long  hours  far  from 
the  madding  crowd. 

"Whose  house  is  this,  anyway?"  I  languidly  in- 
quired, as  I  mounted  the  wide  steps  of  Milton  bricks 
with  tubbed  plants  on  either  side  of  them. 

"What  difference  does  it  make?"  asked  Wendy 
Washburn  as  he  waited  to  close  the  door  behind  me. 
The  next  moment  he  had  switched  on  the  lights. 

"It  looks  like  a  very  nice  one,"  I  admitted,  as  I 
stared  about  me.  It  didn't  interest  me  much  more, 
though,  than  the  foyer  of  a  hotel  interests  a  road- 
weary  trooper  on  the  grape-vine  circuits. 

"I  pride  myself  on  being  a  good  picker,"  said  my 
guide.     I  noticed  that  he  had  carefully  locked  the 
door.    But  even  this  did  not  disturb  me. 
"Are  you — er — nervous?"  he  asked. 


"Not  a  bit!"  I  told  him. 

"Would  you  feel  safer  with  this?"  he  next 
inquired.  I  noticed  that  he  was  holding  out  a  pearl- 
handled  Colt  revolver. 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  it?"  I  asked. 

"Keep  it  under  you  pillow,"  he  explained.  That 
pregnant  word  of  "pillow"  caught  and  held  my  at- 
tention. The  man  who  had  been  so  intently  study- 
ing my  face  seemed  to  realize  this. 

"There's  a  cream  and  gold  room  at  the  head  of 
the  stairway — the  first  door  at  the  right  there !" 

He  ventured  this  announcement  with  a  certain 
vague  constraint  which  made  me  smile  in  spite  of 
myself. 

"Thank  you,  Prince  Charming !" 

"I  think  you'll  find  everything  there — and  quite 
comfortable,"  he  went  on,  still  a  little  embarrassed 
by  my  steady  stare. 

"You  seem  to  know  this  house,"  I  told  him. 

"I  at  least  know  that  it  is  empty,"  he  retorted. 

"You're  quite  sure  of  that?"  I  asked,  already  a 
step  or  two  up  the  stairway. 

"Positive!"  he  replied. 

"Then  me  for  the  hay!"  I  flippantly  announced. 

'Til  wait  here  until  you've  locked  yourself  in,"  he 
rather  ponderously  explained. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        263 

I  crept  up  to  the  door  that  stood  first  on  the  right, 
with  a  sigh  of  weariness  as  I  reached  the  top  of  the 
stairs.  Then  I  quietly  opened  the  door,  subdued  in 
some  way  by  the  sheer  silence  of  that  empty  house. 
I  was  feeling  about  the  wall  for  a  light-switch  when 
something  arrested  my  attention.  I  stood  there  for 
a  full  minute,  listening. 

Then,  scarcely  without  breathing,  I  crept  noise- 
lessly toward  the  center  of  the  room,  where  a  wide 
cream  and  gold  bed  stood  scarcely  discernible  in  the 
half-light.  I  stood  studying  that  bed  for  some  time. 
Then  I  backed  as  noiselessly  away,  and  out  of  the 
room,  softly  closing  the  door  behind  me. 

My  Hero-Man  was  still  standing  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  in  an  attitude  of  puzzled  expectancy.  I 
went  slowly  and  thoughtfully  down  to  him. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  in  a  nervous  whisper. 

"Is  there  any  other  room  in  this  house  I  could 
sleep  in?"  I  offhandedly  inquired. 

"Why?"  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  exactly  like  that  cream  and  gold  room," 
I  told  him. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,"  he  finally  said.  "The 
whole  house  is  empty.  You  can  take  any  room  on 
that  floor." 


264        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"Then  supposing  I  take  one  on  this  left  side,"  I 
suggested. 

"Yes,  the  delft  blue  room,"  he  agreed.  "That's 
as  good  as  any." 

"Blue's  more  my  color,"  I  said,  as  I  started  up  the 
stairs  again. 

I  don't  know  whether  he  believed  me  or  not.  I 
didn't  even  care.  I  was  too  tired  to  worry  over  it. 
But  weary  as  I  was,  I  was  at  least  wide  enough 
awake  to  know  that  I  stood  face  to  face  with  a  new 
mystery. 

For  in  the  bed  of  the  cream  and  gold  room  of  that 
empty  house  there  was  a  young  woman  lying,  fast 
asleep. 

And  remembering  that,  I  not  only  locked  my 
door  and  wheeled  a  dressing-table  across  it,  but  I 
also  laid  out  Wendy  Washburn's  pearl-handled  Colt, 
on  what  looked  like  a  Louis-Seize  vitrine  of  hand- 
painted  glass  standing  close  beside  the  bed.  For  I 
intended  to  sleep,  even  though  I  had  to  shoot  a 
dozen  mysterious  females  to  do  it ! 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

I  WAS  never  a  light  sleeper,  for  when  I  went  to 
bed  I  seldom  carried  my  worries  there  with  me. 
But  once  my  eyes  were  open,  I  was  always  wide 
awake  in  a  second. 

Just  how  late  I  slept  in  that  strange  bedroom  of 
delft  blue  I  had  no  means  of  judging.  But  I  knew 
that  I  had  slept  well,  for  I  wakened  to  find  the  sun 
high  in  the  heavens  and  an  absurd  sense  of  well- 
being  in  my  healthy  young  body.  So  I  lay  there 
for  a  few  minutes,  blinking  contentedly  about  at  my 
surroundings. 

That  room,  I  knew,  was  a  woman's  room.  I 
knew  it  by  the  canopies  of  cream  lace  over  blue  silk, 
by  the  bottles  and  powder-puff  bowl  of  pale  azure 
ware  on  the  dressing-table,  by  the  little  blue  patch- 
box  and  the  crystal  clock  in  the  same  tone,  by  the 
cabinet  de  peignoir  with  silk-draped  panel  doors  and 
the  sky-colored  shoe-cabinet  with  its  five  shelves  of 
glass  all  empty. 

It  was  the  sort  of  a  room  any  girl  would  love  to 
lie  in  bed  and  study.  But  I  had  other  things  to  do, 
I  remembered,  besides  wriggling  my  toes  over  a 

265 


266        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

nest  which  had  been  feathered  for  some  other  and 
some  much  luckier  woman.  I  was  only  an  intruder 
there,  a  usurper  whose  kingdom  of  grandeur  might 
turn  topsy-turvy  at  the  first  touch  of  a  bell  or  the 
unannounced  opening  of  a  door. 

So  I  tumbled  out  of  bed  and  trotted  to  the  double 
window  through  which  the  sun  was  shining.  No- 
where about  the  many-acred  garden  that  sloped 
down  to  the  glinting  and  sparkling  waters  of  the 
Hudson  could  I  see  any  sign  of  life.  But  this  in  no 
way  disturbed  me.  It  left  me,  in  fact,  so  light  of 
heart  that  I  would  have  begun  to  whistle — only  I 
suddenly  remembered  about  the  mysterious  woman 
sleeping  in  the  cream  and  gold  room  across  the  hall 
from  me. 

The  thought  of  that  mysterious  woman  began  to 
worry  me.  It  worried  me  so  much  that  I  silently 
removed  the  dressing-table,  unlocked  the  door,  and 
tiptoed  out  into  the  hallway.  I  stood  there  listen- 
ing. But  not  a  sound  came  to  me.  Then  I  crept 
on  to  the  door  across  the  hall,  listening  again,  and 
silently  opened  thai;  door. 

I  opened  it  just  an  inch  or  two.  But  that  was 
enough.  The  curtains  had  been  drawn,  and  the 
room  was  still  almost  in  darkness.  But  from  the 
bed  I  could  hear  the  deep  and  regular  breathing  of  a 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        267 

sleeper.  She  was  still  there,  and  still  dead  to  the 
world. 

I  stared  at  the  bed,  but  all  I  could  make  out  was 
the  tumbled  mass  of  the  woman's  hair,  and  the 
vague  contour  of  her  body  under  the  billowy  coun- 
terpane. And  I  had  no  desire  to  disturb  that  child- 
like and  placid  sleeper.  On  the  other  hand,  I  did 
not  care  to  think  of  her  disturbing  me.  So  I  reached 
in,  noiselessly  lifted  out  the  key,  and  quietly  closed 
the  door.  Then,  having  locked  it  from  the  outside, 
I  slipped  into  the  room  of  delft  blue  and  proceeded 
to  lock  myself  in. 

After  that  I  felt  more  at  my  ease,  even  though  I 
couldn't  quite  shake  off  the  thought  that  I  was  now 
something  worse  than  an  intruder.  I  was  enough 
at  home,  however,  not  only  to  re-explore  the  ivory- 
white  bathroom  with  the  sunken  tub  of  Italian 
marble,  which  opened  off  my  room,  but  to  unearth 
a  cake  of  real  Roger  et  Gallet  soap  and  take  a  cold 
shower.  After  that  I  scrambled  into  my  clothes  and 
sampled  the  powder  in  the  little  azure  bowl.  For 
there  was  no  knowing  what  might  turn  up,  at  any 
moment,  in  that  house  of  silence. 

Now  that  I'd  had  time  to  think  things  over,  in- 
deed, I  felt  a  good  deal  like  Golden-Locks  in  the 
house  of  the  three  bears.  I  was  eager  enough  to 


268        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

nose  about,  but  there  was  no  telling  when  a  human 
grizzly  might  appear  and  demand  just  who  had 
been  interfering  with  his  household  furniture.  And 
like  Golden-Locks,  I  knew  I'd  then  have  to  jump 
from  a  window  and  make  for  the  tall  timber. 

It  was  as  I  came  to  a  standstill,  half-way  down 
the  wide  stairway,  that  the  first  betraying  sign  of 
life  came  to  me  from  below.  It  may  have  been  a 
disturbing  sign,  but  it  was  at  least  an  appetizing  one. 
For  I  distinctly  caught  the  smell  of  cooking  bacon. 
And  mixed  with  it,  in  a  sort  of  symphony  of  per- 
fumes, was  the  even  more  compelling  aroma  of  cof- 
fee. 

If  it  was  a  trap,  it  was  at  least  a  well-baited  one. 
For  whatever  I  may  have  expected,  or  may  have 
been  afraid  of,  I  could  no  more  resist  that  mingled 
smell  of  coffee  and  bacon  than  a  mouse  can  keep 
away  from  well-toasted  cheese.  It  drew  me  like  a 
magnet  down  through  that  house  of  silence.  And 
before  I  knew  it  I'd  stumbled  into  a  sort  of  break- 
fast-room where  the  sun  was  shining  in  through  a 
double  pair  of  French  windows  and  a  table  with  a 
snow-white  cloth  was  laid  for  two.  It  looked  ap- 
pealing enough,  but  instead  of  a  partner  I  found  a 
sheet  of  paper  propped  up  against  the  sugar-bowl. 
On  this  sheet  was  written : 


"Everything  looks  safe  but  keep  under  cover  until 
I  can  get  back.  I've  put  a  tea-cosey  over  the  coffee 
pot  to  keep  it  hot." 

And  this  rather  remarkable  message  was  signed 
by  the  one  word  "Wendy." 

That  note,  for  some  reason,  started  me  thinking 
of  the  night  before.  I  sat  down  in  a  chair  beside 
the  table  and  made  an  effort  to  go  methodically  over 
the  events  of  the  past  twenty-four  hours.  But  it 
proved  no  easy  thing  to  do.  It  left  me  confronted 
by  too  many  tangles  and  confounded  by  too  many 
questions  which  were  still  unanswered.  And  as  I 
pondered  over  these  problems  I  absently  lifted  a 
dish-cover  which  was  still  quite  warm  to  the  touch, 
and  unearthed  a  platter  of  bacon  and  eggs.  Then  I 
lifted  the  yellow  silk  tea-cosey  and  sniffed  at  the 
coffee.  That,  naturally  enough,  made  me  look  about 
for  the  toast.  But  there  was  none. 

I  was  still  inwardly  lamenting  this  discovery 
when  a  sudden  sound  put  an  end  to  all  such 
thoughts.  It  was  the  quick  shrill  of  a  bell,  and  it 
brought  me  up  short.  For,  at  first,  I  thought  that 
sound  was  unmistakably  a  door-bell  ringing.  As 
the  sound  was  repeated,  however,  again  and  still 
again,  I  became  convinced  it  was  the  call-bell  of  a 
telephone  from  some  near-by  room.  So  I  started 


270        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

in  search  of  it,  for  I  remembered  the  sleeper  above- 
stairs,  and  knew  that  the  sooner  that  bell  was 
muffled  the  better. 

I  found  the  telephone,  still  shrilling  out  its  impa- 
tient call,  in  what  looked  to  me  like  a  library.  I  sat 
down  in  front  of  the  rosewood  table  and  stared  at 
the  transmitter-stand.  Then  I  deadened  the  bell- 
shrill  with  my  hand,  debating  whether  or  not  it 
would  be  best  for  me  to  lift  that  receiver.  Finally, 
as  it  happened  with  the  wife  of  Bluebeard,  curiosity 
got  the  better  of  mere  cold  feet.  I  put  the  receiver 
to  my  ear  and  whispered  a  very  quiet  and  cautious 
"Hello"  into  the  instrument. 

"So  you  got  out  there  all  right?"  asked  a  man's 
voice.  There  was  a  familiar  ring  about  that  voice, 
but  I  was  unable  to  place  the  speaker. 

"Yes,"  I  guardedly  whispered  back. 

"Have  you  got  a  cold?"  inquired  the  voice  over 
the  wire. 

"Yes,"  I  whispered,  "a  terrible  one !" 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you're  there,  anyway,"  answered 
the  voice,  after  a  pause. 

I  didn't  know  what  to  say,  so  I  ventured  a  wild 
guess  at  it. 

"But  why  didn't  you  call  me  earlier?"  I  whis- 
peringly  demanded. 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        271 

"I'll  explain  that,  me  darling,  when  I  get  out  there 
to  your  side,"  was  the  answer  that  came  over  the 
wire. 

It  rather  made  me  sit  up.  I  didn't  relish  the 
thought  of  that  particular  person  visiting  my  par- 
ticular house  of  refuge.  For,  at  some  undefined 
moment  during  my  talk  at  the  phone,  the  slightly 
Celtic  intonation  of  that  voice  had  solved  the  riddle 
for  me.  I  at  last  knew  my  man.  It  was  Pinky 
McClone  himself  who  was  talking  over  the  wire. 

"Listen,"  I  said  to  him  with  sudden  decision.  "It 
won't  be  safe  for  you  to  come  out  here !" 

"I  know  it  won't !"  was  Pinky's  resolute  answer. 
"But  all  the  powers  of  heaven  won't  be  keeping  me 
away  from  you !" 

"I'm  not  thinking  of  the  powers  of  heaven,"  I 
tried  to  tell  him,  as  I  ventured  a  second  wild  guess. 
"I'm  thinking  of  the  man  who's  trying  to  keep  us 
apart !" 

"Do  you  know  what  I'm  going  to  do  when  I  meet 
that  man?"  demanded  the  voice  over  the  wire. 

"What?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  going  to  kill  him!"  was  the  altogether  dis- 
turbing reply  that  came  in  to  me. 

I  sat  there  staring  so  blankly  ahead  of  me  that  it 
was  some  time  before  I  became  actually  aware  of  the 


272        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

fact  that  Wendy  Washburn  was  standing  at  the 
open  door,  staring  in  at  me.  How  much  he  had 
heard  I  didn't  know,  and  couldn't  tell.  There  was 
a  smile  about  his  lips,  but  his  forehead  wore  a  little 
wrinkle  of  troubled  thought.  I  knew  by  his  face 
that  the  eagle  of  curiosity  was  clawing  at  his  vitals, 
that  he  was  dying  to  know  what  had  been  said  over 
that  wire.  But  he  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to 
ask  me,  if  I  was  too  much  of  a  cynic  to  trust  him. 
So  his  face  was  blank  again  as  I  coolly  hung  up  the 
receiver  and  rose  from  my  chair. 

He  stood  waiting  for  me  at  the  door.  I  didn't 
speak  to  him,  at  first,  for  I  was  afraid  the  sound  of 
our  voices  would  carry  only  too  clearly  up  that  wide 
stairway.  And  there  was  a  sleeper  above,  I  remem- 
bered, that  it  would  be  best  not  to  waken. 

But  I  found  it  hard  to  keep  back  a  chuckle.  For 
on  his  arm  Wendy  Washburn  carried  what  was 
plainly  a  package  of  breakfast  rolls,  a  bottle  of 
cream,  and  a  print  of  butter.  In  his  hand  he  held 
a  huge  bunch  of  violets.  Wendy,  it  was  plain  to 
see,  had  been  making  hay  while  the  sun  shone. 

"You've  made  quite  a  haul  of  it  this  morning!"  I 
casually  remarked,  with  a  nod  toward  his  parcels. 

He  looked  down  at  them  apologetically. 

"Oh,   these!"   he   said,   with   his   heat-lightning 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        273 

smile.  "To  tell  the  truth,  I  really  had  to  buy  these. 
I've  just  been  down  to  the  village  for  'em !" 

He  held  out  the  bunch  of  violets  to  me.  They 
were  not  the  kind  that  grow  in  country  glades.  They 
were  the  kind  you  get  at  Thorley's,  and  they  cost 
more  than  prints  of  creamery  butter. 

"I  love  flowers !"  I  told  him,  as  I  buried  my  nose 
in  them.  Then  I  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled.  I 
was  puzzling  him,  apparently,  quite  as  much  as  he 
had  been  puzzling  me.  His  cut  on  the  lip  from  the 
night  before,  I  noticed,  was  quite  swollen  and  dis- 
colored. And  he  looked  rather  meek  and  domestic, 
loaded  down  with  those  parcels  like  a  commuter. 
Yet  he  seemed  determined  to  accept  the  situation 
quite  as  casually  as  I  had  been  doing. 

"Sleep  well?"  he  inquired,  as  I  followed  him 
across  the  breakfast-room  to  the  snowy  little  table. 

"Like  a  top!"  I  told  him,  though  just  why  a  top 
should  stand  as  an  emblem  of  sound  slumber  was 
quite  beyond  my  comprehension. 

"Hungry?"  he  inquired,  as  he  tumbled  the  rolls 
out  on  the  table-top.  I  arranged  them  neatly  on  an 
empty  plate  as  I  answered  him. 

"Starving!"  I  replied,  and  I  remembered  that 
much  the  same  words  had  been  used  at  the  last  meal 
which  I  had  eaten  with  him. 


274        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

We  sat  down,  one  at  each  side  of  the  table.  Then 
he  suddenly  got  up  again. 

"Will  you  excuse  me  for  one  minute?'"  he  said 
over  his  shoulder,  as  he  started  for  the  door. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  I  asked  him,  with  a 
good  deal  of  trepidation,  and  one  hand  firmly  on  the 
roll  plate,  to  make  sure  that  the  best  part  of  my 
breakfast  wasn't  going  to  follow  him.  But  he  didn't 
wait  to  answer  me.  And  I  sat  there  wondering  if 
he'd  gone  for  good,  or  merely  slipped  out  for  a 
policeman,  or  remembered  to  awaken  the  mysterious 
lady  in  the  cream  and  gold  room  above  stairs. 

But  I  was  wrong  on  every  count.  For  he  came 
back  in  a  moment  or  two  with  the  black  club-bag 
in  his  hand  and  a  look  of  relief  on  his  face. 

"It  isn't  the  sort  of  thing,  you  know,  that  you 
care  to  leave  lying  around  in  corners !"  he  apologeti- 
cally remarked,  as  he  stepped  into  the  room  and 
quietly  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

He  put  the  club-bag  close  beside  his  chair  as  he 
sat  down  again. 

"Shall  I  pour?"  I  asked,  as  I  lifted  the  cosey  from 
the  silver  coffee-pot. 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  but  his  eyes,  I  noticed,  were 
studious  and  abstracted.  He  served  the  bacon  and 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE       275 

eggs.  Then  he  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the 
library,  where  I  had  answered  that  mysterious  tele- 
phone call.  The  eagle,  I  knew,  was  still  busy  with 
its  clawing  act. 

"Were  you  expecting  a  visitor?"  he  asked,  in  an 
offhanded  and  impersonal  sort  of  way. 

"I'd  prefer  not  having  one !"  I  told  him,  quite  as 
impersonally. 

"I  trust  you'll  not  be  disappointed  in  that  wish," 
he  said.  But  there  was  a  note  of  constraint  in  his 
voice  as  he  spoke.  And  his  eyes,  from  time  to  time, 
kept  searching  my  face. 

"And  you?"  I  inquired,  remembering  the  sleeper 
above  us.  "Were  you  expecting  a  visitor?" 

"It  would  rather  interfere  with  our  plans, 
wouldn't  it?"  he  suggested. 

I  looked  up  at  him. 

"What  plans  have  we?"  I  asked.  We  were  both 
eating  by  this  time.  And  I  observed  that  his  appe- 
tite was  quite  as  normal  as  my  own, 

"That's  something  we  have  to  talk  over,"  he 
asknowledged. 

"I  think  we  have  a  great  deal  to  talk  over,"  I 
amended. 

"Yes,  a  great  deal,"  he  agreed,  as  he  passed  me 


276        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

the  breakfast  rolls.  Then  he  laughed  as  he  followed 
my  example  and  took  one  of  them.  "You  know,  it's 
years  since  I've  done  this  sort  of  thing!" 

"You  mean — er — paid  for  things?"  I  calmly  in- 
quired, with  a  head-movement  toward  the  roll  plate. 

He  nodded  his  own  head,  almost  gleefully,  like  a 
street-urchin  whq'd  raided  a  fruit-cart. 

"I  find  I  fail  quite  often,  in  the  little  things,"  he 
acknowledged.  "It's  only  the  big  coups  that  I  care 
to  count  on." 

"Such  as  half  a  million  in  a  club-bag!"  I  sug- 
gested. 

Still  again  he  nodded  his  head. 

"Well  I  want  to  talk  about  this  club-bag,  and  cer- 
tain things  that  happened  last  night,"  I  told  him. 

He  at  once  became  serious. 

"I  was  hoping  you  wouldn't  go  back  to  that." 

"Why?"  I  asked  him. 

"Because  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  had  all  you 
wanted  of  that  sort  of  thing,  and  would  prefer  talk- 
ing about  the  future." 

"I  don't  think  I've  got  any  future,"  I  told  him, 
with  a  gulp  of  self-pity  that  I  couldn't  altogether 
succeed  in  laughing  down. 

"That's  what  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about,"  he 
calmly  retorted. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        277 

"For  instance?"  I  said,  very  much  on  my  guard. 

He  sat  staring  at  me  across  the  table  for  a  full 
minute  before  he  spoke. 

"Why  don't  you  like  me?"  he  asked,  as  offhand- 
edly as  though  he  were  inquiring  the  time  of  day. 

"Who  said  I  didn't?" 

"Your  face  says  so,  five  or  six  times  every 
minute !" 

It  was  my  turn  to  sit  and  look  at  him.  For  it  sud- 
denly came  home  to  me  that  I  was  enjoying  this 
novel  tete-a-tete  much  more  than  I  had  imagined. 
He  was  a  man  easy  to  talk  to,  was  Wendy  Wash- 
burn.  He  was  natural  and  unaffected,  and  there 
were  times  when  you  seemed  to  fit  into  his  humor 
as  easily  as  you  fit  into  an  armchair.  There  was  a 
quiet  impersonality  about  him  that  put  you  at  your 
ease.  He  never  reminded  you  of  your  sex.  There 
was  no  smirking  gallantry  about  him.  Even  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  there  were  a  good  many  corners  in 
his  life  that  he'd  kept  covered  up,  he  suggested,  in 
his  apparent  openness,  a  young  and  healthy  boy.  He 
always  seemed  to  be  doing  the  right  sort  of  thing. 
It  may  not  have  been  the  right  sort  of  thing,  of 
course,  but  he  had  a  way  of  doing  it  which  made  it 
seem  right.  And  he  would  always  be  easy  to  get  on 
with. 


278        THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

"You  oughtn't  to  trust  my  face,"  I  finally  told 
him. 

"But  I  do,"  he  said  with  the  utmost  solemnity.  "I 
trust  it  more  than  you  do  yourself." 

I  couldn't  quite  catch  what  he  meant  by  that.  But 
I  didn't  think  any  the  less  of  him  for  saying  it. 

"Go  on,"  I  mocked.    "Tell  me  all  about  myself." 

He  seemed  to  jump  at  the  chance. 

"All  right,  I  will.  And  you  can  tell  me  whether 
I'm  right  or  wrong.  You've  always  rather  liked  nice 
things.  If  I'm  not  greatly  mistaken,  you  always 
secretly  revolted,  even  as  a  young  girl,  at  the 
thought  of  life  in  a  pigeonhole  on  one  of  the  side- 
streets.  You've  always  had  a  sort  of  ache  to  be  in 
touch  with  the  splendor  of  life — to  swim  with  the 
swell  push,  as  some  of  our  Center  Street  friends 
might  express  it." 

He  declined  to  countenance  my  interruption. 

"Now,  pull  down  those  Elsie  Ferguson  eyebrows 
until  I  finish,  please,"  he  went  on.  "I  don't 
mean  the  white  lights  and  lobster-palace  floaters 
and  fifteen-carat  diamond  rings,  by  the  splendor 
of  life.  But  no  girl  is  as  fastidious  as  you 
are  about  her  clothes,  and  about  her  hair,  and  about 
herself  altogether,  without  having  that  streak  of 
fineness  extending  right  up  into  her  mind.  It  has 


THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        279 

to  be  a  part  of  her.  Now,  wait,  don't  interrupt !  I'm 
not  trying  to  flatter  you.  You  clipped  the  wings  of 
anything  like  that  one  afternoon  down  at  Long 
Beach.  But  what  I  do  acknowledge  is  that  the 
whole  thing  puzzles  me,  that  I  can't  quite  square 
you,  as  you  sit  there  at  that  side  of  the  table,  with 
what  happened  that  day  at  Long  Beach,  and  with 
what  happened,  well,  last  night,  if  we  don't  want  to 
go  back  too  far." 

I  think  I  both  liked  him  and  hated  him  for  the 
things  he  was  saying.  I  didn't  bother  to  ask  myself 
why.  But  he  was  breaking  into  that  high-walled 
garden  which  has  "Personal"  written  over  its  gate- 
arch.  And  it  had  become  an  instinct  of  life  with 
me,  I  suppose,  to  resent  all  such  intrusions. 

"You  seem  to  be  rather  interested  in  me,"  I  ob- 
served, by  way  of  a  "No-Trespassing"  sign. 

"I  am!"  he  promptly  acknowledged.  "I'm  tre- 
mendously interested  in  you !" 

"And  how  far  back  does  this  interest  extend?"  I 
coldly  inquired. 

"Back  to  the  first  day  I  ever  met  you,"  he  had  the 
candor  to  acknowledge. 

"And  how  far  does  it  promise  to  extend  into  the 
future?"  I  asked,  more  unsettled  by  his  solemnity 
than  I  had  been  by  his  flippancy. 


280        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

But  Wendy  Washburn  did  not  answer  my  ques- 
tion. Instead  he  asked  me  one  of  his  own. 

"You  don't  worry  much  about  things,  do  you?" 

"What's  the  use  ?"  I  retorted. 

"You  rather  surprise  me,  on  that  point,"  he  rue- 
fully admitted. 

"Then  it  may  surprise  you  to  know  that  at  this 
very  moment  I  am  worried,  and  terribly  worried." 

"About  what?" 

"About  everything!" 

He  smiled  a  little. 

"You  don't  look  it." 

"I  was  always  told  to  keep  up  a  good  front,"  I 
explained,  as  that  old  streak  of  perversity,  which 
kept  tempting  me  to  key  my  talk  down  to  the  under- 
world plane,  reasserted  itself.  And  I  could  see  my 
Hero-Man's  mouth  harden. 

"The  sentiment  may  be  admirable,  but  the  phrase 
strikes  me  as  rather  obnoxious !" 

I  had  always  been  too  much  of  a  pepper-pot,  I 
suppose,  to  take  criticism  like  that  with  folded  hands 
and  a  meekly  bowed  head. 

"It  seemed  good  enough  for  the  man  who  taught 
it  to  me,"  I  said.  And  I  had  the  satisfaction  of 
beholding  a  hope  fulfilled,  for  his  face  clouded  up  in 
spite  of  himself. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        281 

"What  man  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Bud  Griswold,"  I  told  him,  with  a  touch  of 
malice.  "Bud  always  claimed  that  a  good  front 
helped  out  in  our  line  of  business !" 

"Our  line  of  business!"  echoed  Wendy  Wash- 
burn,  in  a  sort  of  groan. 

"Well,  isn't  it  about  the  same  as  your  line  of  busi- 
ness?" I  demanded. 

He  looked  at  me  vacant-eyed,  for  a  moment  or 
two.  Then  he  sat  back  in  a  brown  study. 

"I  think  I  resent,  more  than  anything  else,  that 
man's  influence  over  you,"  he  finally  asserted.  He 
even  sighed,  I  suppose  at  the  memory  of  my  mis- 
spent life. 

"There  was  one  thing  that  Bud  was  rather  par- 
ticular about,"  I  said  with  all  the  sugary  indiffer- 
ence that  I  could  command,  "and  that  was  to  respect 
the  dead!" 

"The  dead?"  he  echoed,  batting  his  eyes  with  per- 
plexity. Then  he  seemed  to  waken  up  to  the  fact 
that  I  had  been  hurling  a  harpoon  at  him,  for  he 
looked  self-conscious  and  awkward. 

"But  so  many  of  us  are  half  dead  without  quite 
realizing  it,"  he  lamely  contended,  doing  his  best 
to  emulate  the  humble  cuttlefish. 

"Thank  you !"  I  retorted. 


282        THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

"On  the  contrary,  I  couldn't  accuse  you  of  not 
being  alive,"  he  protested.  "I  think,  perhaps,  that 
you're  rather  too  much  alive.  But  I  can't  help  feel- 
ing it's  been  a  foolish  sort  of  liveliness,  like  the  kind 
you  see  in  a  squirrel-cage." 

"Again  I  thank  you !"  I  solemnly  told  him.  But 
he  refused  to  be  shaken  out  of  his  seriousness. 

"What  I  mean  isthatyou've  never  lived  up  to  your 
potentialities.  You've  never  given  yourself  a  chance. 
You've  never  really  risen  to  your  opportunities. 
You've  wasted  your  time  on  the  small  caliber  things 
of  life.  Instead  of  conquering,  you've  merely 
fretted.  Instead  of  using  that  restless  brain  and 
body  Heaven  gave  you,  for  one  big  end,  you've  let 
them  blow  like  a  leaf  in  the  winds  of  chance !" 

"I  don't  quite  follow  you,"  I  coldly  affirmed,  try- 
ing to  throw  dignity  up,  like  a  guard-arm,  to  ward 
off  the  blows  that  were  beginning  to  hurt. 

"I  mean  that  you're  too  clever  a  woman,  ye«,  and 
too  fine  a  woman,  to  be  doing  the  things  you  have 
been  doing,"  he  said,  still  speaking  without  heat. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  a  very  stupid  woman,  or  I 
wouldn't  be  letting  you  say  the  things  you  are  saying 
to  me,"  I  said,  meeting  his  gaze.  I  was  even  able  to 
laugh  at  him,  though  there  wasn't  much  merriment 
in  that  laughter  of  mine.  For  there  was  only  too 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE        283 

much  truth  in  many  of  the  things  he  had  been  say- 
ing. He  was  quite  right  in  suspecting  that  I  was 
a  sort  of  whip-top,  that  I  could  only  keep  my  balance 
by  being  kept  forever  in  motion.  He  was  also  right 
in  suspecting  that  I'd  always  nursed  a  secret  and  ab- 
surd ache  for  grandeur,  a  sort  of  vague  homesick- 
ness for  some  splendor  which  I  couldn't  quite  define. 
Often,  even  as  a  youngster,  I'd  imagined  myself  a 
changeling.  Many  a  lonely  hour  of  my  childhood 
had  been  spent  in  devising  romantic  fictions  as  to  my 
origin  and  ancestry.  But  every  rose-crowned  ave- 
nue of  romance  had  led  me  wearily  back  to  Minetta 
Lane.  Yet  I'd  always  loved  beautiful  things,  and 
hungered  to  explore  beautiful  houses,  and  yearned 
foolishly  after  even  beautiful  clothes. 

It  was  because  Bud  Grisvvold  had  first  brought  me 
into  touch  with  these  things,  I  remembered,  that  I 
had  been  weak  enough  to  swing  in  with  him.  He 
had  brought  me  into  touch  with  them  crazily  and 
accidentally,  perhaps,  but  it  had  seemed  the  only  way 
open  to  me.  Bud  had  never  been  able  to  give  me  a 
home.  But  he'd  been  able  to  let  me  come  up  like  a 
spoon-bill  to  breathe  in  the  tawdry  beauty  of  a  big 
hotel.  He'd  been  able  to  rent  splendor,  for  at  least  an 
hour,  by  dining  in  state,  for  instance,  at  the  Biltmore. 
But  we  were  always  renters,  and  nothing  more. 


284       THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

Once  our  bill  had  been  paid  we  lost  our  claim  on  that 
Island  of  Enchantment  just  wide  enough  from  one 
white  damask  boundary  to  the  other  to  hold  up  two 
pair  of  elbows.  We  were  royalty,  for  an  hour, 
whereupon  some  other  listless-hearted  flat-dwelling 
lady  promptly  took  possession  of  my  chair,  remind- 
ing me  that  I  was  only  one  in  a  procession  of  self- 
deluded  impostors. 

Wendy  Washburn,  who  had  sat  there  studying 
my  face,  began  to  look  concerned. 

"I  don't  suppose,"  he  finally  ventured,  "that  you 
know  why  I'm  preaching  to  you  along  this  particular 
line?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  was  my  reply.  "But  I  do  know 
that  preaching  isn't  ever  going  to  make  any  differ- 
ence with  me,  or  even  do  me  any  good !" 

My  note  of  revolt  seemed  to  disturb  him.  He 
even  colored  a  little  as  he  stared  across  the  table  at 
me. 

"Oh,  I  say,  you  mustn't  imagine  I'm  trying  any- 
thing so  stupid  as  that !"  he  cried.  "We  don't  sud- 
denly turn  good  that  way,  of  course — except  in  the 
Elsie  books,  or  at  Billy  Sunday's  revivals !" 

"Then  why  talk  about  it  at  all  ?"  I  inquired.  But 
that  question,  apparently,  he  preferred  to  leave  un- 
answered. 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE       285 

"By  the  way,  would  you  regard  me  as  clever  as 
Bud  Griswold  ?"  he  somewhat  startled  me  by  asking. 

"You've  had  more  chances,  I  think,  than  Bud  ever 
did,"  I  told  him.  "And  you  may  laugh  at  me  for 
saying  it,  but  outside  his  work  Bud  was  the  clean- 
est-living man  I  ever  knew." 

"You  mean  you  always  considered  him  that?" 

"Always,"  I  affirmed. 

"Of  course  you  would,"  he  agreed. 

"Why  the  'of  course'?"  I  demanded. 

"Otherwise  you'd  never  have  worked  with  him," 
explained  my  Hero-Man,  with  a  frown  of  trouble 
on  his  fastidious-looking  forehead.  "But  with  all  due 
deference  to  this  same  Bud,  I  can't  help  feeling  that 
his  vision  was  limited.  As  far  as  I  can  estimate 
him,  he  was  big  in  just  one  thing.  And  that  one 
thing  was  his  treatment  of — no,  not  exactly  his 
treatment  of  you,  but  his  appreciation  of  you !" 

I  felt  in  no  way  flattered  over  that  left-handed 
compliment. 

"You  never  knew  Bud  Griswold  as  I  knew  him," 
I  retorted,  trying  to  speak  as  calmly  as  I  could.  "He 
may  have  been  nothing  better  than  a  confidence- 
man,  but  in  his  own  blind  way  he  was  always  trying 
to  grope  up  to  better  things.  His  thinking  may 
have  been  all  wrong — I  suppose  the  thinking  of  every 


286        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

criminal  has  to  be  wrong — but  even  at  that  sort  of 
work  Bud  tried  to  keep  as  clean-handed  as  he  could. 
I  can  remember  when  a  porch-climber  friend  of  his 
steered  him  into  a  chance  to  clean  out  a  four- family 
flat-house  in  Cleveland.  He  merely  said,  'Nix  on 
the  wage-earners!'  And  he  meant  it.  For  he  al- 
ways drew  the  line  at  robbing  the  poor.  But  he  felt 
that  he  had  a  sort  of  right  to  shake  down  the  rich, 
now  and  then,  and  I've  seen  him  make  his  rounds  as 
though  he  were  a  tax-collector  after  arrears.  I 
think  he  even  took  a  sort  of  joy  in  setting  an  over- 
dressed dowager  back  a  couple  of  marquise  rings 
and  a  sunburst  or  two !" 

Wendy  Washburn  sat  studying  me  quite  soberly. 
But  for  some  reason  or  other  there  was  humor  in 
his  eyes. 

"I  like  you  for  being  loyal  to  Bud,  no  matter  what 
he  was,"  explained  the  man  across  the  table  from 
me.  "But  what  I've  been  trying  to  get  at  is  that  all 
these  activities  of  his  were  pretty  small  affairs. 
They  could  only  lead  to  failure,  in  the  end.  In  fact, 
they  did  lead  to  failure.  They  weren't  big  enough 
to  justify  themselves.  Bud,  I  mean,  may  have 
been  the  most  upright  burglar  who  ever  jimmied  a 
back  window,  but  to  the  local  police  he  would  always 
be  a  burglar !" 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        287 

I  resented  that  description  of  Bud,  and  it  made 
the  tone  of  my  retort  rather  bitter,  I  suppose. 

"While  you  do  your  work  along  such  sweeping 
lines,"  I  suggested,  "that  the  chance  to  pack  a  jury 
is  never  overlooked  and  an  ex-judge  can  always  be 
retained  to  confirm  the  acquittal !" 

He  laughed  at  that,  quietly  and  a  little  bewilder- 
ingly. 

"Well,"  he  retorted,  "I've  at  least  kept  out  of  jail, 
however  I  do  my  work !" 

"So  have  I !"  was  my  prompt  counter  to  that  re- 
tort. "And  what's  more  important — " 

Instead  of  completing  that  sentence,  however,  my 
voice  trailed  off  into  silence.  For,  closely  as  I  had 
been  looking  at  the  face  of  the  man  across  the  table 
from  me,  I  became  vaguely  conscious  of  a  move- 
ment not  many  feet  beyond  the  spot  where  that  man 
sat. 

Without  actually  looking  at  the  door  in  the  wall 
directly  behind  him,  I  became  aware  of  the  fact  that 
this  door  had  slowly  swung  back,  as  though  moved 
by  a  listener  hidden  in  its  shadow. 

I  didn't  betray  that  discovery  by  any  sudden 
movement  or  start.  But  my  first  thought  was  of 
the  unknown  woman  I  had  seen  asleep  in  the  blue 
and  gold  bedroom  up-stairs. 


288        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

The  thought  of  that  unknown  woman,  however, 
did  not  stay  long  in  my  head.  For  the  door,  swing- 
ing still  wider,  had  allowed  that  unseen  interloper 
to  pass  into  the  room  itself.  My  gaze  was  still  di- 
rected on  Wendy  Washburn's  face.  I  did  not  act- 
ually look  away  from  him.  Yet  somewhere  on  the 
vague  borders  of  vision  I  received  an  impression  of 
a  moving  shadow.  I  knew  that  some  one  had 
opened  the  door,  had  silently  entered  the  room,  and 
was  advancing  across  the  floor. 

Wendy  Washburn  was  speaking  again,  but  I  had 
no  idea  what  he  was  saying.  His  words  became  a 
meaningless  jumble  of  sound,  and  I  lost  all  thought 
of  him,  as  that  advancing  shadow  moved  more  di- 
rectly into  my  line  of  vision. 

My  first  shock  came,  as  I  slowly  raised  my  eyes, 
when  I  discovered  the  intruder  was  not  a  woman. 
My  second  shock  came  when  I  realized  that  this  in- 
truder carried  a  blue-barreled  automatic  in  his  right 
hand.  But  the  third  shock,  and  the  greatest 
of  them  all,  came  when  I  saw  that  this  intruder  was 
a  man  whom  I  had  been  taught  to  think  of  as  dead. 

For  standing  before  me  I  saw,  not  a  ghost  of  Bud 
Griswold,  but  Bud  Griswold  himself,  Bud  in  the 
flesh,  Bud  with  the  prison-pallor  still  on  his  gaunt 
face,  Bud  clad  in  soiled  linen  and  ill-kempt  clothing, 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        289 

and  Bud  with  a  look  in  his  deep-set  and  slightly 
glazed  eyes  which  brought  me  half-way  up  from  my 
chair,  with  a  foolish  sort  of  squeak  of  terror,  which 
I  could  no  more  control  than  I  could  control  my  cir- 
culation. For  I  had  learned  to  know  that  look,  and 
I  was  afraid  of  it. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

y\S  I  stood  there  staring  past  the  head  of  Wendy 
jLJL  Washburn  I  called  out  the  one  word  of 
"Bud!" 

But  that  white- faced  man  who  had  come  back  so 
suddenly  to  the  world  of  the  living  paid  scant  atten- 
tion to  me.  He  didn't  even  look  at  me. 

"Stand  up !"  he  barked  out  at  Wendy  Washburn 
as  the  latter,  startled  by  my  gaping  face,  twisted 
interrogatively  about  in  his  chair.  I  noticed  that 
the  automatic  no  longer  wavered,  but  was  leveled 
directly  at  the  other  man's  head.  And  the  look  in 
Bud  Griswold's  eyes  still  frightened  me. 

"Bud,  don't  shoot!"  I  gasped  out,  as  Wendy 
Washburn  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  with  his  back 
against  the  table.  Even  then,  for  all  the  blind  fe- 
rocity on  his  face,  I  felt  sorry  for  Bud.  There 
seemed  something  so  unreasoning  and  animal-like 
about  that  face.  It  was  childish.  It  was  pathetic. 
And  stronger  even  than  the  terror  that  was  tingling 
through  my  body  was  the  sudden  surge  of  pity  for 

290 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE       291 

this  man  who  had  always  misunderstood  life  as  the 
living  had  misunderstood  him. 

Then  my  wits  came  back  to  me,  and  I  pushed  my 
way  in  between  the  two  men  so  coldly  eying  each 
other. 

"Bud!"  I  cried  out.  But  he  refused  to  look  at 
me. 

"Well,  what  d'  you  want?"  was  his  none  too 
gentle  reply. 

"Bud,  they  told  me  you  were  dead,"  I  went  on, 
desperately  intent  on  distracting  him  from  any  wild 
end  which  he  might  have  in  view. 

"I  was  as  good  as  dead,  I  guess,"  he  retorted,  with 
a  movement  for  me  to  step  aside.  But  I  stayed 
where  I  was. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  I  demanded. 

He  stared  at  me  with  a  look  of  hostility  in  his 
haggard  eye. 

"That's  a  question  I  want  you  to  answer,"  he  re- 
torted. 

I  realized  as  I  stared  back  at  him,  that  it  takes 
time  to  digest  a  mental  shock.  I  still  found  it  hard 
to  think  of  him  as  a  flesh-and-blood  human  being. 
For  over  two  years  the  habit  of  accepting  him  as 
dead  had  been  fixing  itself  in  my  mind.  And  it 
wasn't  easy  to  break  a  habit  as  fixed  as  that. 


292        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"Then  that  woman  lied  to  me!"  I  called  out  to 
him. 

"What  woman?"  he  evaded.  But  his  eye  no 
longer  seemed  able  to  meet  mine. 

"Copperhead  Kate,"  I  said,  and  into  that  name  I 
threw  all  the  scorn  I  could  command.  For  I  hated 
her  now,  more  than  ever.  And  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  saw  a  hang-dog  expression  on  Bud  Gris- 
wold's  face.  He  looked  like  a  sheep-killer  on  the 
morning  after.  And  he  knew  that  look  was  there. 
He  tried  to  hide  it  by  shuffling  to  one  side,  on  the 
pretense  of  more  directly  confronting  Wendy  Wash- 
burn,  who  all  this  time  was  standing  silent  and  studi- 
ous behind  me. 

"Then  it  was  that  woman  who  worked  the  ropes 
for  your  pardon,  or  your  parole,  or  your  commuta- 
tion, or  whatever  it  was?"  I  declared,  with  the 
double-edged  spear-head  of  jealousy  cutting  my  soul 
in  two.  And  there  was  excuse  enough,  I  suddenly 
saw,  for  all  those  vague  old  suspicions  which  had 
once  yelped  in  my  heart  like  hunting-dogs  in  an  ex- 
press-car. 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  talk  about  that  woman," 
was  Bud's  unexpectedly  blunt  retort. 

"Then  what  did  you  come  for  ?"  I  demanded. 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        293 

My  eye  followed  him  as  he  backed  away  from  me. 
There  seemed  something  almost  symbolic  in  that 
movement  of  his. 

"I  want  that  club-bag,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
satchel  which  stood  half  under  the  edge  of  the  table- 
cloth. 

"Why?"  I  asked.  I  tried  to  be  calm,  but  all  the 
while  I  had  that  odd  sickening  feeling,  just  under 
the  corset-cover,  which  comes  to  people  when  they 
feel  their  first  earthquake,  when  they  learn  for  the 
first  time  that  the  one  solid  thing  on  which  they  had 
depended  is  no  longer  worthy  of  that  dependence. 

"You  know  why  as  well  as  I  do,"  was  his  sullen- 
toned  answer. 

"Then  you  and  that  woman  are  working  to- 
gether !"  I  cried  out  at  him,  hoping  against  hope  that 
he  would  be  able  to  deny  it. 

"Well,  what  about  you  and  this  man  here?" 
scoffed  Bud.  "Aren't  you  working  with  him?" 

"Am  I  ?"  I  demanded,  swinging  about  on  Wendy 
Washburn.  His  face  was  a  little  paler  than  usual, 
but  outwardly  he  was  quite  calm.  "Am  I?"  I  re- 
peated. But  he  declined  to  answer  that  question. 

"Supposing  the  three  of  us  sit  down  and  talk  this 
over,"  he  quietly  suggested. 


294        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

"I  didn't  come  here  for  any  afternoon-tea  seance," 
announced  Bud.  "I  want  that  bag,  and  I  want 
everything  that's  in  it !" 

A  second  great  wave  of  pity  for  that  white- faced 
man  with  the  automatic  pistol  in  his  hand  swept 
through  me.  I  don't  know  exactly  what  it  was,  or 
why  it  was,  but  I  felt  so  sorry  for  Bud  Griswold  as 
he  stood  there  that  I  could  have  leaned  on  his  shoul- 
der and  cried  like  a  baby. 

It  wasn't  so  much  that  he  was  taking  something 
away  from  me  which  I  couldn't  define,  that  he  was 
roughly  obliterating  me  from  his  existence,  that  he 
was  humiliating  me  before  the  one  man  whose  scorn 
would  always  be  doubly  hard  to  bear.  It  was  more 
that  he  was  humiliating  himself,  denuding  his  poor 
pathetic  figure  of  its  last  shred  of  dignity,  robbing 
himself  of  every  hope  for  the  future. 

I  wondered,  as  I  stood  staring  at  him,  if  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life  I  was  seeing  him  in  his  true 
light;  if,  during  the  last  two  or  three  years,  I  had 
indeed  learned  to  look  on  him  and  his  kind,  and  all 
they  stood  for,  as  I  had  never  been  able  to  look  on 
them  before.  And  I  felt  a  sudden  lump  in  my 
throat  as  I  stood  there  asking  myself  these  ques- 
tions. 

"Bud,"  I  began,  with  a  quaver  in  my  voice  which 


THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        295 

I  couldn't  control,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I've  got 
to  talk  to  you.  You're  trying  to  do  something  you'll 
be  sorry  for,  something  you  can't  help  being  sorry 
for,  all  your  life.  This  whole  thing's  too  tangled 
for  me  to  explain  it  to  you  here.  But  I  want  you  to 
believe  in  me.  I  want  you  to  know  that  I'm  being 
sincere  with  you.  If  you  take  that  stuff  you're — 
you're  going  to  spoil  my  life.  And  I  know  you 
don't  want  to  do  that." 

He  looked  at  me,  with  his  deep-sunken  eyes,  but 
there  was  a  glitter  in  them  which  I  had  never  seen 
there  before. 

"I  guess  I'm  not  the  zany  who  can  do  any  spoiling 
along  that  line,"  he  retorted.  He  said  it  roughly, 
but  I  thought,  in  my  blindness,  he  was  doing  that 
only  to  hide  his  real  feeling. 

"But  it  could  have  been  yours,  Bud,"  I  told  him, 
trying  in  vain  to  keep  my  voice  steady.  "And  I 
want  you  to  believe  every  word  I  say  when  I  tell  you 
it  can  be  yours  still.  I'll  go  with  you,  Bud,  wherever 
you  say,  wherever  you  want,  if  you'll  only  do  what 
I'm  asking  you!" 

There  was  a  movement  from  the  man  behind  me. 
But  I  was  not,  at  the  moment,  interested  in  that  man. 
I  was  too  intently  watching  Bud  Griswold's  face.  I 
was  looking  for  something,  but  I  looked  in  vain. 


296        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"Nix  on  that  reform  stuff,"  he  said,  and  his  own 
voice  was  a  little  unsteady  as  he  said  it.  "Let  me 
tell  you  something.  I  tried  that  game,  and  it 
wouldn't  go  down.  I  tried  that  after  I  got  out.  I 
hit  Chicago  and  stumbled  into  the  Pacific  Garden 
Mission  there,  where  old  Harry  Monroe  used  to 
hold  out  for  all  the  jail-birds  like  me.  Well,  I  tried 
the  dope.  I  hit  the  trial,  and  got  drunk  on  oratory 
the  same  as  other  down-and-outers  get  drunk  on  gin. 
But  they  couldn't  do  the  Billy-Sunday  trick  with  me, 
for  they  couldn't  show  me  how  to  live  on  big  talk. 
And  I've  got  to  live.  And  I  only  know  one  way  of 
doing  it !" 

"But  is  it  living?"  I  asked  him. 

"Well,  whatever  you  want  to  call  it,  it's  about  all 
I'm  going  to  get,"  was  Bud's  ungracious  retort. 
"And  I  guess  we've  wasted  enough  time  on  this  spiel 
about  our  souls.  I'm  not  worrying  about  the  here- 
after. What  I  want  is  something  that's  going  to 
keep  me  more  comfortable  right  here  on  earth !" 

I  had  never  before  heard  Bud  talk  in  that  strain, 
and  it  was  a  shock  to  me.  It  worried  me  even  more 
than  the  ugly-looking  automatic  which  he  still  kept 
poised  in  front  of  him. 

"And  where  are  you  going  to  get  it?"  I  asked, 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        297 

even  while  I  felt  the  hopelessness  of  trying  to  argue 
with  him. 

"What's  in  that  club-bag  there  will  do  me  a  con- 
siderable time,"  he  announced.  His  flippancy  hurt 
me  even  more  than  his  sullenness.  It  felt  like  the 
flick  of  a  whip-lash  in  the  face.  It  startled  me  into 
a  sort  of  desperation. 

"Bud,  if  you  give  me  that  automatic  I'll  go  with 
you,  wherever  you  want,"  I  told  him,  as  I  stepped 
closer  to  his  side. 

But  as  I  advanced  he  backed  slowly  away. 

"Not  on  your  life!"  he  said  with  grim  delibera- 
tion. 

"You  mean  you  don't  want  me  ?"  I  cried. 

"I  mean  I  don't  fall  for  any  trick  like  that !" 

"Then  you  don't  trust  me?"  I  demanded. 
"You're  through  with  me?  You  don't  even  want 
me  to  go  with  you  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"You  couldn't  come  if  you  wanted  to,"  he  said 
with  a  derisive  bark  of  a  laugh. 

"Why  couldn't  I?" 

"This  guy  here  wouldn't  let  you,"  he  explained, 
with  a  pistol-wave  in  the  direction  of  Wendy  Wash- 
burn. 


298        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

"What  has  that  man  got  to  do  with  me?"  I  de- 
manded. 

Bud  laughed  out  loud, '"with  his  deep-set  eyes  fixed 
on  the  other  man. 

"Why,  that  guy  went  mushy  on  you  over  two 
years  ago!"  was  the  half -sneering  but  altogether  un- 
expected reply  that  came  from  Bud  Griswold's 
unhappy  lips.  "That  man's  in  love  with  you!" 

I  turned  slowly  about  and  stared  at  Wendy  Wash- 
burn.  But  his  face  was  a  mask. 

"That's  not  true !"  I  gasped. 

"Then  who'd  you  'spose  coughed  up  for  all  that 
convent  life  of  yours?"  inquired  the  white- faced 
man  with  the  automatic.  "You  don't  suppose  /  had 
heel  enough  for  that,  do  you,  when  I  couldn't  even 
come  across  with  enough  to  buy  off  those  Michigan 
cops  and  keep  out  of  Jackson?" 

I  looked  from  one  man  to  the  other.  It  was  too 
much  for  me  to  believe. 

"But  this  man  is  a  bigger  crook  than  you  are,"  I 
tried  to  explain  to  Bud. 

"Only  he  seems  to  do  a  neater  line  of  work,"  was 
Bud's  sneering  comment.  "And  if  you  knew  more 
about  this  house  you're  in,  you'd  be  a  little  wiser 
about  what  I  mean  by  that !" 

Before  I  had  time  to  say  more  he  pushed  me  to 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        299 

one  side  and  stepped  in  closer  to  Wendy  Washburn. 
The  end  of  the  automatic-barrel  was  within  two  feet 
of  where  a  slender  gold  and  platinum  watch-chain 
crossed  Wendy's  vest- front. 

"No  talk  from  you,  now :  not  a  word !"  Bud  said 
to  him,  with  a  savagery  which  was  as  unexpected  as 
the  movement  itself.  "All  I  want  from  you,  re- 
member, is  this  bag!"  He  stooped  and  caught  up 
the  club-bag  from  the  floor,  placing  it  on  the  break- 
fast-table close  beside  the  coffee-pot  I  could  see 
his  left  hand  fumbling  with  the  catches  as  he  kept 
his  eye  on  Wendy  Washburn. 

Then  he  suddenly  stopped  short. 

"Back  up  against  that  wall,"  he  bruskly  com- 
manded. 

There  was  nothing  for  the  other  man  to  do  but 
fall  slowly  back  until  his  heels  clumped  against  the 
wainscoating. 

"Now  stay  there !"  was  Bud's  order,  as  he  placed 
the  automatic  close  beside  the  club-bag  on  the  edge 
of  the  table.  It  was  so  placed,  however,  that  his 
hand  could  fall  on  it  at  a  moment's  notice.  He  in- 
tended to  make  sure  of  the  contents  of  that  bag,  and 
it  was  plain  that  with  only  one  free  hand  he  had  been 
unable  to  manage  the  catches.  He  could  not  afford 
to  look  down  at  them,  for  his  eye,  all  the  time,  was 
bent  on  the  silent  man  against  the  wall. 


300        THE    HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

So  intently  was  he  watching  that  man,  in  fact, 
that  I  saw  my  chance,  and  took  it.  I  weighed  it  all 
over,  with  a  frantic  sort  of  deliberation,  and  then  I 
got  busy.  I  was  able  to  creep  up  behind  the  man 
with  the  bag  quite  unobserved.  I  even  reached  out 
my  hand  and  had  my  fingers  clamped  about  the  butt 
of  that  heavy  and  ugly-looking  firearm  before  Bud 
had  any  knowledge  of  my  intentions.  And  then  it 
was  too  late.  For  I  had  the  gun  in  my  hand  and 
had  dodged  back  from  the  table  before  he  could  so 
much  as  lift  a  finger  to  interfere  with  me. 

But  he  didn't  even  try  to  follow  me.  He  blinked 
down  at  the  opened  bag,  for  a  moment,  and  then  he 
deliberately  snapped  it  shut  again.  Then  he  stood 
blinking  across  the  room  at  me.  It  wasn't  antag- 
onism I  saw  on  his  face.  It  wasn't  even  resent- 
ment. It  was  more  a  quiet  and  unemotional  de- 
termination which  disturbed  me  more  than  the 
blackest  outburst  of  anger  could  have  done.  It 
made  me  in  some  way  afraid  of  that  sunken-eyed 
man  with  the  club-bag  in  his  hand. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  demanded,  hold- 
ing the  automatic  up  in  front  of  me. 

"Do  you  really  want  to  know  ?"  he  inquired,  as  he 
turned  his  head  and  looked  back  at  me  slightly  over 
his  shoulder,  for  he  had  already  rounded  the  table. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        301 

"Yes,  I  want  to  know,"  I  said,  and  my  own  voice 
sounded  as  thin  as  a  seventh  carbon-copy.  For  all 
the  while  I  was  puzzling  that  empty  head  of  mine  as 
to  what  the  cause  of  this  new-found  fortitude  of 
Bud's  could  be. 

"I'm  going  out  through  that  door,"  slowly  as- 
serted the  man  with  the  club-bag.  "I'm  going  out 
through  that  door,  and  out  of  this  house,  and  you're 
not  going  to  stop  me !" 

"Why  can't  I?"  I  demanded.  Without  even 
being  conscious  of  the  act  I  raised  the  pistol  on  a 
level  with  my  eye. 

"Wait!"  pleaded  Wendy  Washburn  from  where 
he  stood  against  the  wall. 

"Why  can't  I?"  I  repeated  with  my  eye  on  the 
man  with  the  bag. 

"Because,"  retorted  Bud  with  his  one-sided  smile, 
"if  you  remembered  me  and  the  way  I  work  a  little 
better,  you'd  know  I  never  went  into  a  job  with  a 
loaded  gun,  in  all  my  life.  It's  too  risky." 

I  looked  down  at  the  heavy  automatic.  I  sprung 
open  the  clip-chamber  and  found  it  as  empty  as  a 
last  year's  bird's-nest. 

"It  may  be  empty,"  said  a  voice  behind  me  as  I 
looked  up  just  in  time  to  see  Bud,  with  the  club-bag 
in  his  hand,  pass  out  through  the  hall  door,  "but  this 


302        THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

one  isn't,  and  you  two  high-brow  Robin  Hoods 
would' ve  found  it  out,  if  you'd  made  one  move  to 
stop  that  man !" 

It  was  a  woman's  voice,  and  the  owner  of  that 
voice  stepped  in  through  the  inner  door  opposite  the 
hall  at  the  same  moment  that  I  swung  about  and 
stared  at  her.  It  wasn't  the  revolver  in  this  inter- 
loper's hand  that  made  me  gape  at  her  with  such 
stupid  and  empty  eyes.  It  was  the  discovery  that 
the  woman  was  Copperhead  Kate  herself. 

"Stop  her!"  was  my  foolish  and  frantic  cry  to 
Wendy  Washburn  as  that  woman  with  the  snaky 
green  eyes  and  the  revolver  in  her  hand  strode  in- 
solently across  the  room  to  the  other  door. 

"Try  it !"  challenged  Copperhead  Kate.  "Try  it 
— and  the  next  clothes  you  put  on  won't  come  from 
me;  they'll  come  from  an  undertaker!" 

"Stop  her!"  I  repeated  in  a  gurgle  as  she  passed 
out  into  the  hall. 

"What's  the  use?"  quietly  inquired  my  Hero- 
Man.  "Since  they  insist  on  traveling  together,  why 
not  humor  their  whim?" 

"But  don't  you  see  what  this  means  ?"  I  somewhat 
shrilly  and  somewhat  desperately  demanded. 

"It  means  that  their  journey  can't  possibly  be  as 
long  as  they  anticipate,"  was  Wendy  Washburn's 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        303 

quiet-toned  reply,  "for  there's  a  cordon  of  plain- 
clothes  men  about  this  place  and  not  a  soul  can  leave 
the  grounds  without  them  knowing  it !" 

I  stared  at  him,  wide-eyed  and  wondering. 

"Then  what's  going  to  happen  to  you?"  I  de- 
manded. 

He  laughed  a  little. 

"To  me?"  he  asked.  "To  be  perfectly  frank,  if 
you'll  excuse  my  absence,  I  think  I'd  better  slip  out 
and  made  sure  those  men  are  on  their  jobs.  For  I 
had  'em  put  there,  and  when  you're  paying  for  a 
thing,  you  know,  it's  always  better  to  get  it  done !" 

I  stood  there,  trying  in  vain  to  marshal  my  tangled 
impressions  into  some  sort  of  order. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  I  called  out  to  my  Hero-Man 
as  he  reached  the  door.  "Did  you  know  there  was 
a  man  coming  out  to  this  house  to-day  for  the  par- 
ticular purpose  of  killing  you?" 

"That's  interesting,"  he  acknowledged  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye.  "And  it  would  be  equally  inter- 
esting, I  imagine,  to  know  his  name." 

"His  name  is  Pinky  McClone !" 

"I  never  heard  of  any  such  man  in  all  my  life," 
he  solemnly  averred. 

"But  you  will,"  I  warned  him. 

"Quite  likely,"  he  acknowledged,  with  a  smile, 


304        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"for  we  seem  to  be  having  more  visitors  than  we 
ever  expected !" 

"We  have !"  I  agreed  to  his  vanishing  back,  as  he 
hurried  down  the  shadowy  hallway.  For  I  had  sud- 
denly remembered  about  the  mysterious  woman  in 
the  cream  and  gold  room  up-stairs.  And  I  had  also 
remembered  about  the  pearl-handled  revolver  which 
I  had  left  up-stairs  under  my  pillow. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

IF  for  a  moment  I  was  swayed  by  an  impulse  to 
follow  Wendy  Washburn  out  of  that  somewhat 
bewildering  house,  I  at  least  had  the  sense  not  to 
succumb  to  any  such  impulse. 

It  was  plain  enough,  in  the  first  place,  that  I 
wasn't  wanted.  In  the  second  place,  it  was  equally 
plain,  that  I  couldn't  be  of  much  use  to  that  some- 
what compromising  Hero-Man  of  mine.  And  in 
the  third  place,  since  my  sojourn  under  that  particu- 
lar roof  carried  every  evidence  of  being  rather  lim- 
ited, there  was  a  situation  or  two  which  I  preferred 
to  investigate  in  person. 

As  I  stood  alone  in  the  morning-room,  beside  our 
dismantled  breakfast-table,  I  hesitated  for  only  a 
moment.  Then  I  made  for  the  silent  hallway, 
slipped  up  the  stairs  and  hurried  quickly  to  the 
door  of  the  room  where  I  had  slept.  My  move- 
ments, under  the  circumstances,  were  as  noiseless  as 
I  could  make  them.  For  I  had  a  few  things  to  settle 
in  my  own  mind  before  parting  company  with  those 
silent  and  shadowy  upper  regions. 

305 


306       THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

Once  I  was  assured  my  own  room  was  empty  and 
would  make  a  convenient  port  of  refuge  in  case  of 
interruption,  I  rescued  my  pearl-handled  revolver 
from  under  its  pillow.  Then  I  tiptoed  across  the 
hall  to  the  door  that  opened  on  the  cream  and  gold 
room. 

I  fitted  the  key  in  the  lock  and  turned  it  slowly, 
without  making  a  sound.  I  was  equally  careful  in 
turning  the  knob.  Then  I  swung  the  door  back  a 
few  inches.  And  then  I  stood  stock-still. 

For  I  saw  that  my  unknown  sleeper  was  no  longer 
in  the  bed.  And  that  discovery  rather  stumped  me. 

But  even  as  I  stood  there  staring  in  at  the  empty 
bed,  with  its  telltale  tumble  of  white  linen,  a  door  on 
the  far  side  of  the  room  was  slowly  opened.  The 
next  moment  a  woman  stepped  through  it.  I  could 
see  her  quite  plainly.  Yet  what  made  me  catch  my 
breath  was  the  discovery  that  this  woman  was  the 
same  white- faced  woman  I  had  seen  in  the  city 
house  with  the  limestone  front. 

I  stood  so  motionless  that  she  failed  to  catch  sight 
of  me.  For  she  hesitated  a  moment,  with  her  eyes 
downcast,  apparently  in  an  attitude  of  listening  for 
something.  And  that  gave  me  a  chance  for  a  more 
leisurely  survey  of  her  figure.  She  was  wearing  a 
peignoir  of  white  corduroy-velvet,  with  swan's-down 


THE  HOUSE  OF  INTRIGUE     307 

at  the  throat.  And  as  she  stood  with  one  hand 
against  the  open  door  she  reminded  me  of  a  silver 
birch.  She  was  so  thin,  in  fact,  that  she  looked 
gaunt.  About  her  downcast  eyes  was  the  same  ex- 
pression of  fixed  melancholy  which  had  so  disturbed 
me  when  I  first  saw  her  staring  down  over  a  stair- 
railing.  This,  together  with  her  hollow  cheeks, 
made  her  seem  pathetic,  pathetic  in  a  way  which  I 
found  it  hard  to  explain.  Yet,  I  noticed,  now  that 
I  had  a  chance  to  study  her  at  my  leisure,  that  her 
face  was  not  a  dead  white.  There  was  a  touch  of 
yellow  in  it,  just  enough  to  give  it  an  ivory  tone. 

I  stood  there  in  the  doorway,  waiting  to  see  what 
would  happen  next.  I  watched  her  as  she  crossed 
the  room,  lifted  a  brocaded  satin  candy-box  from  the 
writing-table  and  took  off  the  cover.  I  could  hear 
a  petulant  and  quite  earthly  exclamation  of 
"Pshaw !"  as  she  saw  that  it  was  empty  and  tossed 
it  back  on  the  table.  And  ghosts,  I  knew,  were  not 
given  to  eating  bon-bons. 

I  saw  her  turn  and  stare  studiously  about  the 
room.  But  I  had  no  intention  of  retreating.  So  it 
was  not  long,  naturally,  before  her  eyes  fell  on  me. 
This  time,  however,  she  did  not  vanish  into  thin  air. 
She  did  not  even  start.  She  merely  stared  at  me  in 
a  petulantly  bewildered  sort  of  way. 


308,       THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

"So  you're  here  too?"  she  finally  said.  She  said 
it  in  an  amazingly  matter-of-fact  tone,  more  as 
though  she  were  thinking  aloud,  indeed,  than  ad- 
dressing a  stranger. 

"Yes,  I'm  here,"  I  announced,  following  her  cue 
as  to  matter-of-factness,  "and  until  I  find  out  certain 
things,  I  think  I'm  going  to  stay  here !" 

She  merely  stared  at  me  with  her  rebelliously 
reckless  and  mournful  eyes.  Then  she  sank  into  a 
chair  that  stood  beside  her.  She  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing the  movement  an  altogether  listless  one.  It 
seemed  to  signify  that  although  boring  her  I  would 
probably  have  to  be  put  up  with. 

"In  the  first  place,  I  want  to  know  how  you  got 
out  here?"  I  demanded,  realizing  that  I  had  to  do 
something  more  than  dally  at  the  heels  of  that  lan- 
guid-eyed young  lady  in  the  peignoir. 

She  looked  up  at  me  from  under  her  bent  brows. 
It  was  more  the  look  of  a  spoiled  and  wayward  child 
than  of  a  woman. 

"You're  not  going  to  be  disagreeable  about  all 
this,  too,  are  you  ?"  she  petulantly  inquired. 

"I  only  want  to  know  the  truth,"  was  my  retort, 
as  I  stood  there,  with  one  hand  still  on  the  door- 
knob. 

She  gave  a  sigh,  half  weariness,  half  relief. 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        309 

"That's  what  I'd  like  to  know  myself.  But  I 
don't  seem  able  to  straighten  things  out.  And  I 
hate  to  think !" 

I  promptly  decided  to  help  her  along  that  line. 

"Then  suppose  we  begin  by  clearing  up  the  point 
as  to  just  who  you  are,"  I  calmly  suggested. 

She  stared  at  me  with  mild  resentment,  as  though 
to  imply  that  she  had  been  burdened  by  little  of  the 
mystery  of  her  own  identity.  I  could  see  that  she 
was  by  no  means  the  docile  and  yielding  young  thing 
which  her  artless  languor  might  have  led  one  to 
expect. 

"I'd  rather  like  to  know  who  you  are,"  she  finally 
announced. 

"Haven't  you  any  idea?"  I  asked. 

"Not  the  least,"  she  told  me. 

So  I  decided  to  drop  a  shrapnel-shell  into  her  en- 
campment of  unconcern. 

"I'm  Clarissa  Rhinelander  Bartlett !"  I  announced. 

This  statement  quite  failed  to  startle  her.  She 
was  even  able  to  laugh  a  little  at  it. 

"Then  there  are  three  of  us!"  she  quietly  ob- 
served. 

"Three  of  us?"  I  echoed. 

She  nodded  her  head.  "At  least,  there  were  three 
of  us,"  she  amended,  "as  far  as  I  can  make  out." 


310        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

"And  how  long  have  you  been  one  of  them?"  I 
inquired.  I  stepped  into  the  room  and  shut  the  door 
behind  me.  Then  I  sat  down  facing  her.  She  was 
giving  me  a  good  deal  to  think  over. 

"From  the  day  I  was  born,"  she  explained,  with  a 
perverse  enjoyment  in  my  perplexity. 

"Are  you  ever  called  Claire  ?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  since  it  happens  to  be  my  name." 

"But  Clarissa  Bartlett,  the  real  Clarissa  Bartlett, 
is  supposed  to  be  dead,"  I  tried  to  tell  her. 

"I've  been  as  good  as  dead  for  the  last  few 
weeks,"  was  her  somewhat  embittered  answer. 

"But  how  did  you  get  out  here  ?"  I  inquired,  going 
back  to  my  first  question. 

"I  got  in  a  car  and  motored  out,"  she  calmly  ex- 
plained. 

"But  why  did  you  come  here?  Why  did  you 
come  to  this  particular  house?"  I  persisted. 

She  hesitated.  And  still  again  I  repeated  the 
question. 

"I'd  go  anywhere  to  get  away  from  that  awful 
house,"  was  her  final  acknowledgment. 

"Why  do  you  call  it  awful?" 

Her  reply  was  at  least  a  startling  one. 

"Because  Wendy  Washburn  made  it  that  way  for 
me!" 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE        311 

It  took  me  several  seconds  to  steady  myself 
against  the  shock  of  this. 

"Then  you  know  Wendy  Washburn  ?"  I  asked,  as 
calmly  as  I  could. 

"I'm  at  least  beginning  to  find  him  out,"  she  re- 
plied. And  still  again  there  was  an  unmistakable 
note  of  bitterness  in  her  voice. 

"Find  him  out  in  what  way?"  I  insisted. 

The  girl  shifted  in  her  chair. 

"That  he's  everything  that's  abominable!"  was 
her  impassioned  reply. 

"Why  do  you  say  that  ?"  I  went  on,  determined  to 
make  hay  while  the  sun  shone. 

"Because  he's  cruel  and  deceitful,  as  you'll  very 
soon  find  out,  if  you  haven't  done  it  already." 

"Then  you — you  know  the  sort  of  work  he's  been 
taking  up?"  I  ventured. 

"Yes,  I  know  it — to  my  sorrow !" 

I  felt  that  somewhere  at  the  far  end  of  a  long  and 
untraversed  tunnel  I  was  at  last  seeing  a  little  light. 

"And  Ezra  and  Enoch  Bartlett,"  I  continued,  "are 
they  your  uncles  ?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  listlessly  admitted. 

"You  suppose  so?"  I  repeated.  "Don't  you 
know?" 

"I  never  thought  much  about  it." 


312        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"But  why  should  your  own  uncles  think  you  were 
dead,  when  you  seem  to  be  so  very  much  alive?" 

"I  think  I  would  be  dead,  if  a  few  of  those  people 
had  their  own  way  about  it !"  was  her  morose  com- 
ment on  that  question  of  mine. 

"And  you  include  Wendy  Washburn  in  that 
circle?"  I  asked. 

"He's  worse  than  any  of  the  rest  of  them!"  was 
her  spirited  retort. 

"Is  he — in  any  way  related  to  you?"  I  inquired, 
remembering  certain  things. 

"In  more  ways  than  one,  unfortunately." 

"But  how?"  I  persisted. 

"He  happens  to  be  my  cousin,  in  the  first  place." 

This  gave  me  still  a  second  shock  to  digest. 

"Go  on,"  I  prompted. 

"And  when  mother  died  in  Florence,  three  years 
ago,  he  was  made  my  guardian-at-law." 

"Wendy  Washburn  was?"  I  incredulously  de- 
manded. 

"It  does  seem  absurd,  doesn't  it?"  said  the  morose- 
eyed  girl.  "But  it's  true." 

"And  you  know,  you  even  acknowledge,  that  he's 
the  worst  of  the  lot?" 

"You'd  agree  with  me,  if  you  knew  him  as  I  do!" 
was  her  retort. 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        313 

''Why  do  you  say  that  ?" 

"Because  he's  trying  to  keep  me  from  marrying 
the  man  I  love/'  was  the  reply  that  came  from  the 
smoldering-eyed  girl  in  white. 

I  sat  back  and  let  this  sink  in.  It  was  a  case  of 
three  strikes  and  out.  It  was  a  new  twist  to  the 
tangle  that  left  me  more  perplexed  than  ever.  I 
began  to  feel  like  a  blue-bottle  fly  in  the  web  of  a 
warrior-spider. 

"But  why  should  he  do  that?"  I  weakly  inquired. 

"Because  he's  thinking  of  only  his  own  selfish 
ends,"  was  the  other's  answer. 

"What  ends?" 

The  girl  looked  up  at  me. 

"You  don't  seem  to  know  my  family,"  she  ejacu- 
lated. There  was  on  this  occasion  both  pride  and 
scorn  incongruously  mixed  together  in  her  tone. 

"As  far  as  I  understand  it,"  was  my  dignified 
reply,  "I  believe  the  Bartlett  estate  is  valued  at  about 
seven  million  dollars." 

"My  estate!"  corrected  the  moody-eyed  young 
woman  confronting  me. 

"And  you  mean  to  say  this  man  is  trying  to  rob 
you  of  this  estate?"  I  demanded. 

"It's  worse  than  that !"  was  the  other's  reply. 

That  hint  of  things  too  dark  to  be  unearthed  gave 


314       THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

me  a  vague  sinking  feeling  in  the  region  where  I  had 
so  recently  pinned  Wendy  Washburn's  bunch  of  vio- 
lets. 

"You  don't  mean  he's — he's  trying  to  make  you 
marry  him?"  I  asked,  with  a  sort  of  in-this-way- 
madness-lies  clutch  at  my  bosom. 

That  morose-eyed  young  woman  sat  studying  my 
face  for  a  moment  or  two.  The  incredulity  which 
she  must  have  beheld  on  it  seemed  to  do  away  with 
her  hesitation. 

"Yes,"  she  finally  admitted. 

I  don't  know  whether  I  had  really  expected  that 
or  not,  but  when  it  came  it  made  me  blink  a  little, 
the  same  as  you  blink  when  a  forty-candle  power 
bulb  is  suddenly  turned  on  in  front  of  you.  Then, 
thin  and  sweet,  above  all  the  tumult  of  the  discov- 
eries that  were  roaring  like  machinery  about  my 
dusty  brain,  a  voice  of  relief  kept  repeating  that 
Wendy  Washburn  was  still  an  unmarried  man,  kept 
repeating  it  insistently,  foolishly,  like  a  song-spar- 
row on  the  eaves  of  a  busy  cotton-mill. 

"And  everything  that's  been  happening  in  that 
awful  house  in  town,"  I  limply  inquired,  "has  all 
that  happened  just  because  of  this  ?" 

"Wendy,"  she  declared,  "was  at  the  bottom  of 
everything !" 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        315 

"But  what  good  is  it  doing  him?"  I  asked,  won- 
dering what  moment  the  subject  of  our  talk  might 
step  up  into  that  room  in  person  and  add  to  my  per- 
plexities. 

"No  good  whatever,"  declared  my  stubborn-eyed 
young  friend,  "for  he'll  never,  never,  be  able  to  do 
what  he  intends  to  do !" 

"Of  course  he  won't,"  I  concurred.  "But  tell 
me  about  this  other  man,  the  man  you  want  to 
marry." 

"He's  everything  that  is  brave  and  strong !" 

"They  always  are,"  I  promptly  agreed.  "But  tell 
me  something  more  definite.  Where  is  he?  And 
what  is  he?" 

I  could  see  a  smile  of  disdain  on  her  moody  young 
lips,  at  that  practical  American  question,  as  she  sat 
there,  apparently  weighing  in  her  own  mind  what 
she  ought  to  tell  me  and  what  she  ought  to  keep  to 
herself.  I  suddenly  remembered  the  unwelcome 
visitor  who  had  forced  his  way  into  the  room  of  the 
four-poster.  And  the  possibility  of  the  coincidence 
almost  took  my  breath  away. 

"That  young  man's  name  doesn't  happen  to  be 
McClone,  does  it?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  was  the  girl's  decisive  reply. 

"Then  what  is  it?" 


316        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"It's  O'Toole— Michael  O'Toole,"  she  admitted. 
But  the  admission  seemed  to  cost  her  an  effort.  It 
was  plainly  not  an  easy  name  to  say. 

I  could  place  no  Michael  O'Toole,  I  felt  sure, 
among  the  starry  names  that  dotted  the  Social  Reg- 
ister which  Bud  and  I  had  once  so  carefully  studied. 
But  I  kept  my  nose  to  the  ground,  like  a  beagle  after 
a  cotton-tail. 

"That's  a  grand  old  Irish  name — O'Toole,"  I  ad- 
mitted. 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  girl.  "One  of  his  ancestors 
was  a  king  in  Ireland,  he  told  me." 

"There  must  have  been  an  awful  bunch  of  kings 
in  that  country  at  one  time,  if  all  I  hear  is  true,"  I 
remarked. 

"Michael  is  as  much  a  king  as  any  of  them/'  she 
proudly  protested. 

"They — they  don't  ever  call  him  Mike,  do  they?" 
I  had  the  impertinence  to  inquire.  For  I  was  begin- 
ning to  realize  that  this  pathetic  little  cabinet-piece, 
whom  I'd  thought  of  as  a  Dresden  china  rarity, 
housed  up  from  all  the  ways  of  the  world,  was  not 
without  a  mind  of  her  own. 

"Yes,  I  think  they  do!  But  what  about  it?"  was 
the  reply  from  my  suddenly  sullen-eyed  antagonist. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        317 

There  was  revolt,  black  revolt,  in  her  smoldering 
eyes  as  she  put  the  question  to  me. 

"There's  nothing  about  it,  I  suppose,  if  you  can 
only  get  used  to  the  prospect  of  some  day  being 
called  Mrs.  Mike !" 

Her  face  colored  with  a  flush  of  anger. 

"That  sounds  as  contemptible  as  some  of  the 
things  Wendy  Washburn  said,"  she  announced  with 
considerable  heat. 

"Such  as  ?"  I  prompted. 

"That  he'd  break  his  neck  the  first  time  he  tried 
to  walk  across  a  waxed  floor !  And  that  he'd  prob- 
ably have  to  be  taught  the  difference  between  aspara- 
gus-tongs and  an  oyster  fork !" 

I  realized  that  I  was  beginning  to  find  out  things 
about  Michael  O'Toole.  And  they  were  throwing 
not  a  little  light  on  the  problem  confronting  me. 

"But  surely  the  man's  not  a  boiler-maker?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"Of  course  he's  not !"  was  the  indignant  response. 

"Then  what  is  he?" 

The  heavy  look  went  out  of  her  thin  young  face. 

"It  doesn't  matter  with  me  what  he  is.  All  I 
know  is  that  last  summer  at  Long  Beach  he  saved 
my  life!" 


318        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

"At  Long  Beach  ?"  I  said,  with  a  gulp.  For  light- 
ning, after  all,  was  again  striking  twice  in  the  same 
place. 

"Yes;  he  swam  out  and  saved  me,  at  the  risk  of 
his  own  life!"  was  the  reply  that  rapt-eyed  young 
woman  made  to  me. 

"But  surely  he  doesn't  make  a  profession  of  that 
sort  of  thing?"  I  calmly  inquired. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  does!"  the  girl  just  as  calmly  re- 
torted. 

"How  do  yon  mean  ?"  I  weakly  inquired. 

"He's  a  life  guard  at  the  beach  there.  And  from 
the  moment  I  felt  him  take  me  in  his  arms,  and  carry 
me  up  to  the  hotel,  I  knew  that  I  could  never  love 
anybody  but  him!  I  knew  it  from  the  first!  And 
nothing  will  ever  change  me!" 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

I  SAT  staring  at  the  girl  with  the  swan's-down 
about  her  swany  young  neck.  She  seemed  to 
feel  that  I  ought  to  agree  with  her.  But  it  wasn't 
easy  for  me  to  go  on.  For  I  knew,  now,  that  Pinky 
McClone,  the  con-man  and  ex-river  pirate,  and 
Michael  O'Toole,  the  rescuer  of  pin-feather  heir- 
esses, were  one  and  the  same  person. 

"And  you,"  I  finally  ventured,  "you  seemed  to  feel 
that  you  owed  him  that?" 

It  began  to  dawn  on  me  that  this  long-muffled 
young  lady  was  not  altogether  sorry  to  encounter  a 
sympathetic  listener. 

"He  deserves  it!"  she  said  with  decision.  "He 
did  a  noble  thing.  He  did  the  only  big  thing  that 
ever  happened  in  all  my  life.  He  did  everything, 
risked  everything,  to  save  my  life.  And  I  knew 
that  I  ought  to  be  ready  to  risk  everything  to  make 
him  happy !" 

I  looked  at  that  young  girl  in  white,  with  the 
swan's-down  about  her  neck,  and  I  pondered  how 
much  of  her  poor  little  hothouse  life  must  have  been 

319 


320        THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

spent  behind  glass,  how  the  glass  of  limestone  man- 
sions, and  well- warmed  landaulets,  and  softly-cush- 
ioned limousines,  must  have  sheltered  her  and  shut 
her  off  from  the  roughening  and  strengthening  winds 
of  the  world.  And  as  I  thought  of  her  and  her 
Michael  I  couldn't  keep  a  wave  of  pity  for  poor 
Wendy  Washburn  from  sweeping  through  me. 

"And  Mike — I  mean  Michael,"  I  said,  perhaps 
with  malice  aforethought,  "how  does  he  feel  about 
it?" 

"If  he  loves  me,  it's  only  for  me,  myself.  It's  for 
my  own  sake.  It's  not  for  what  I  may  have !" 

That,  I  remembered,  didn't  altogether  sound  like 
Pinky  McClone.  Pinky,  plainly,  was  playing  for 
big  stakes,  and  the  worldly-wise  Wendy  Washburn, 
it  was  plain,  was  not  altogether  ignorant  of  that 
fact. 

"He  risked  his  life  for  me,"  my  emotional  young 
companion  was  reiterating.  "And  that's  more  than 
those  namby-pamby  chocolate- fudge  men  I've  al- 
ways known  would  ever  do!  It's  more  than  those 
milk-and-water  dinner-dance  boys  who  can  only  talk 
about  musical-comedy  stars  would  ever  do !" 

I  was  beginning  to  see  a  little  more  light,  so  much 
more  light,  in  fact,  that  it  brought  on  a  tendency 
to  make  me  squint. 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        321 

"And  Michael,  I  suppose,  is  big  and  strong  and 
bronzed,  like  a  Greek  god?" 

"Yes,  like  a  Greek  god!"  the  appreciative-eyed 
young  emotionalist  before  me  promptly  agreed.  And 
I  began  to  see  how  impossible  it  was  going  to  be  to 
throw  the  cold  white  light  of  truth  across  that  well- 
swept  altar-stone  of  adoration. 

"And  I  suppose  in  his  off-season  he  does  some- 
thing? When  the  weather  is  colder  and  he's  not  sav- 
ing lives,  I  mean?" 

Our  eyes  met.  But  her  face  remained  quite  seri- 
ous. 

"He  is  a  pattern-maker,  I  believe,"  she  had  the 
courage  to  acknowledge. 

I  thought  this  over. 

"Then  you  haven't  seen  much  of  him?"  I  ven- 
tured. 

"They  haven't  let  me.  They've  even  kept  me  a 
prisoner  against  my  will." 

"That's  the  way  most  prisoners  are  kept,  I  imag- 
ine. But  who  do  'they'  happen  to  be?" 

"Wendy  Washburn,"  was  the  girl's  answer. 

"But  what  gave  him  the  right  to  go  to  extremes 
like  that?"  I  patiently  inquired. 

"He  took  advantage  of  the  fact  that  he  happened 
to  be  my  guardian.  He  claimed  the  law  gave  him 


322        THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

the  power  to.  keep  me  from  making  a  fool  of  my- 
self!' 

"But  there's  no  law  to  give  him  the  right  to  keep 
you  a  prisoner,  is  there  ?" 

"Of  course  not!  He  merely  took  a  cad's  advan- 
tage of  something  I  said  in  a  fit  of  temper." 

"What  was  that?" 

She  forced  her  glance  to  meet  mine. 

"I  said  I'd  burn  the  house  down,  unless  I  was 
allowed  to  do  certain  things !" 

"You  merely  said  this?" 

The  girl  hesitated. 

"Well,  I  may  have  been — been  excited  enough  to 
make  him  believe  I  was  going  to  do  it.  But  I  didn't 
intend  to  be  bullied." 

"I  see !  Then  your  cousin  clearly  doesn't  approve 
of  Michael?" 

"He  doesn't  understand  him.  He  doesn't  even 
make  an  effort  to  understand  him.  He  keeps  say- 
ing over  and  over  again  that  Michael  is  only  an 
adventurer  trying  to  impose  on  my  ignorance." 

I  knew  it  would  pay  me  to  be  as  patient  as  I  could. 
But  it  wasn't  easy. 

"Has  Mike  ever  given  him  any  cause  to  say 
that?"  I  inquired. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        323 

"Would  you  mind  calling  him  Michael,  please!" 
requested  the  slightly  indignant  young  heiress  con- 
fronting me.  "No,  it  was  all  based  on  nothing  but 
blind  prejudice.  And  when  I  saw  he  was  set  on 
keeping  us  apart,  I  decided  to  get  even  by  starving 
myself.  And  it  wasn't  easy!" 

"But  did  it  succeed?" 

"It  didn't  seem  to.  So  I  threatened  to  make  a 
will,  and  leave  everything  I  owned  to  Michael,  and 
then  kill  myself.  That  made  Wendy  persuade  even 
our  old  family  lawyer  to  go  against  me." 

"Theobald  Scripps?"  I  asked. 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  The  name,  apparently, 
was  unknown  to  her.  The  owner  of  the  pendulous 
Adam's-apple  was  plainly  a  substitute. 

"He  did  more  than  that,"  she  continued,  as  though 
intent  on  easing  her  soul  of  the  injustices  which  had 
been  rankling  within  it  for  so  long,  "he  said  he'd 
put  me  in  a  sanitarium.  I  told  him  I'd  contest  his 
right  to  be  my  guardian.  He  said  he  hoped  I  would 
for  he  was  sick  of  the  job.  So  I  took  him  at  his 
word,  and  said  he  couldn't  get  me  another  any  too 
soon.  Then  he  found  out  father  had  left  two  half- 
brothers  I'd  never  even  heard  of,  who'd  jump  at 
the  chance.  Mother,  you  see,  had  never  let  me  have 


324        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

much  to  do  with  father's  family.  But  these  were 
two  old  men,  horrid  old  men.  When  Allie  saw 
them—" 

"Wait!"  I  interrupted.  "Who  is  Allie?"  For 
this  was  too  important  to  be  neglected. 

The  girl  laughed.  It  was  a  constrained  laugh, 
with  a  touch  of  bitterness.  It  reminded  me  of  a 
lemon-drop. 

"That's  my  keeper — Alicia  Ledwidge.  She  really 
wanted  to  do  everything  she  could  for  me.  She  dis- 
trusted those  two.  old  men,  from  the  moment  they 
came  to  the  house." 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"She  found  out,  in  some  way,  that  they  were  going 
to  have  me  make  a  will  in  their  favor.  I  think  she 
was  afraid  they  might  be  able  to  persuade  me  to  do 
something  like  that.  So  she  told  them,  at  first,  that 
I  was  too  ill  to  be  seen.  Then  they  brought  in  an 
odious  fat-faced  doctor  of  their  own.  That  made 
it  harder  than  ever  for  Allie.  But  we  had  a  house- 
maid who  was  very  ill — with  Bright's  disease,  I 
think  it  was.  So,  until  she  could  do  something,  Allie 
decided  to  pass  this  maid  off  as  me !" 

"As  you  ?"  I  echoed. 

The  girl  nodded.    Then  she  went  on  again. 

"But  the  poor  thing  got  worse,  and  some  time 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        325 

early  last  night  she  died.  I  wasn't  allowed  to  show 
myself,  but  I  suppose  that's  what  all  the  row  was 
about.  They'd  been  keeping  me  locked  in,  you  see. 
But  when  every  one  else  was  so  busy,  and  the  whole 
house  seemed  to  have  gone  crazy,  I  saw  my  chance 
to  get  away  and  send  a  message  to  Michael !" 

"Then  it  was  you  who  took  Wendy  Washburn's 
car?"  I  exclaimed. 

"It  was  standing  there  when  I  slipped  out  of  the 
house.  And  the  only  thing  that  worried  me  was 
that  I  wasn't  able  to  get  my  things  out  of  the  wall- 
safe!" 

"What  things?"  I  demanded. 

"I'd  sent  word  to  my  bankers  to  send  up  certain 
securities  of  mine  which  I  knew  they  held.  Then 
I  had  the  safety-deposit  people  send  up  all  the  family 
jewelry.  When  these  came  back  they  were  all  put 
in  the  wall-safe." 

"But  what  did  you  intend  doing  with  these  securi- 
ties and  this  jewelry?"  I  asked.  She  seemed  to  be 
contentedly  purring  at  the  thought  of  her  own  rare 
ingenuity.  But,  under  the  circumstances,  I  couldn't 
see  my  way  clear  to  sharing  in  that  purr. 

"I  knew  Michael  and  I  would  need  them!"  she 
said  with  the  utmost  simplicity. 

I  felt,  at  the  precise  moment,  that  what  she  needed 


326       THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

much  more  than  either  stock-certificates  or  jewelry 
was  a  good  spanking.  But  I  was  denied  the  luxury 
of  telling  her  so. 

"Need  them  where?"  I  inquired,  forcing  myself 
to  a  quietness  of  tone  I  found  hard  to  command. 

"When  we  ran  away." 

Her  face  was  quite  serious  when  she  said  this. 
She  even  glanced  over  at  me  a  little  pityingly,  as 
though  I  had  proved  rather  denser  than  she  had 
hoped  for. 

"But  why  did  you  hide  those  things  away  in  a 
wall-safe?" 

"To  keep  Wendy  from  knowing !"  was  her  listless 
answer. 

"From  knowing  what?" 

"That  Michael  and  I  are  going  to  run  away !" 

"Are  you?"  I  asked,  as  sober  as  a  judge. 

"Michael  is  coming  out  here  for  me  this  after- 
noon," she  announced. 

"What  for?"  I  asked. 

"To  marry  me !"  she  coolly  explained. 

"To  marry  you,  of  course,"  I  meditatively  re- 
peated. I  tried  to  appear  as  unconcerned  as  possi- 
ble as  I  got  up  from  my  chair.  "Then  it  may  inter- 
est you,"  I  quietly  suggested,  "to  know  just  who 
brought  me  out  to  this  house." 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        327 

"Not  Michael?"  she  demanded,  with  a  quick 
cloud  of  distrust  on  her  wilful  young  brow. 

"No,  it  was  the  man  that  your  Michael  has 
promised  to  kill!"  I  retorted. 

She  didn't  seem  to  understand  me. 

"But  you're  all  so  mistaken  about  Michael,"  she 
complained.  "He  isn't  that  type  of  man.  He's 
nobler  than  that.  He  doesn't  take  lives;  he  saves 
them!" 

I  stared  at  her,  suddenly  realizing  the  gulf  that 
yawned  between  us.  There  was,  I  felt,  no  bridge  of 
human  understanding  that  could  even  span  that  gulf. 
To  argue  with  her  would  be  too  much  like  trying  to 
powwow  with  the  planet  Mars. 

I  wakened  to  the  fact  that  I  was  wasting  time 
with  a  moon-struck  ingenue  when  just  outside  those 
walls  of  cream  and  gold  the  stern  realities  of  an 
uncommonly  stern  world  were  waiting  for  me. 
Clarissa  Rhinelander  Bartlett,  I  saw,  was  in  for  a 
jolt  or  two.  But  some  one  else,  I  felt,  would  have 
to  face  the  problem  of  opening  that  young  lady's 
eyes.  I  had  no  intention  of  ruffling  her  swan's- 
down.  I  felt  too  much  like  the  Brussels  ball  when 
the  first  cannons  of  Waterloo  started  to  boom,  to 
sit  any  longer  in  that  chair. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  demanded  the  girl, 


as  I  got  to  my  feet.  She  must  have  noticed  some 
sudden  change  in  my  face,  for  her  eyes  widened 
with  wonder. 

"I'm  going  to  get  out  of  this  house !"  I  told  her 
with  decision. 

"But  there  are  so  many  questions  I've  got  to  ask 
you?"  demurred  that  wide-eyed  young  woman. 

I  had,  however,  already  crossed  to  the  door. 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  said,  "but  it's  too  late!" 

"Wait !"  she  cried,  as  I  stood  with  my  hand  on  the 
knob. 

"Well  ?"  I  asked,  as  she  hesitated. 

A  hungry  look  had  come  into  her  large  and  shad- 
owy eyes. 

"Would — would  you  mind  sending  me  up  a  five- 
pound  box  of  Page  and  Shaw  from  the  village,  as 
you  go  ?"  she  rather  anxiously  inquired. 

That  strange  request  brought  me  up  short.  I 
stared  back  at  her,  with  a  very  superior  smile  of 
scorn  on  my  lips.  Here  was  a  woman,  I  told  myself, 
whose  soul  was  so  small  it  couldn't  rise  above  a 
chocolate  bon-bon.  Here  was  one  of  your  hothouse 
flowers  who'd  always  been  surrounded  by  those  soft 
airs  of  splendor  after  which  my  own  foolish  young 
heart  had  yearned — and  this  was  the  best  it  could 
all  do  for  her !  She  rather  pitied  me,  I  knew.  Sh« 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        329 

looked  down  at  me  with  that  querulous  condescen- 
sion which  marks  the  many-ribboned  King-Charles 
spaniel  in  the  motor-seat  when  it  sniffs  down  at  the 
ragged-eared  street-waif  that  has  had  to  scurry 
about  the  world  for  its  daily  bones.  But  I  knew 
life.  I  knew  which  hand  would  be  likely  to  toss  a 
crust,  and  which  one  would  heave  a  brick.  I  knew 
how  to  save  my  precious  young  neck.  But  about  all 
your  King-Charles  could  do  was  whimper  for  a 
softer  cushion  and  a  platter  of  fork-dipped  choco- 
lates !  And  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  didn't  feel 
sorry  that  I'd  been  born  little  better  than  a  street- 
waif. 

"All  right !"  I  amiably  agreed  as  I  swung  the  door 
shut  behind  me.  And  I  even  continued  to  feel  rather 
superior  as  I  went  quietly  down  the  broad  stairs  and 
strode  determinedly  on  through  the  silent  hallway. 
I  tried  to  convince  myself  that  I  was  thoroughly  at 
my  ease.  I  even  stopped  to  button  my  glove,  with 
a  show  of  deliberation. 

Then  I  went  on  again.  And  then  I  stopped  for  an 
altogether  different  reason. 

I  stopped  because  a  shadow  had  fallen  across  the 
curtained  door  that  stood  between  me  and  the  outer 
world.  The  afternoon  sunlight  made  this  shadow 
quite  distinct,  and  for  a  moment  I  suspected  that 


330        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

Wendy   Washburn   was   quietly   returning   to   the 
morning-room  where  he  had  so  abruptly  left  me. 

I  decided  to  make  sure  of  this,  however,  before 
opening  that  door,  for  a  latch-key  was  already 
fumbling  in  the  lock.  So  as  the  shadow  bent  lower 
I  squinted  out  through  the  drawn- work  hem  of  the 
curtain. 

I  saw  there,  not  the  spare  figure  of  my  Hero-Man, 
but  a  much  lustier  figure  in  a  checked  tweed  suit. 
This  figure,  I  further  saw,  now  wore  a  fawn-colored 
necktie  with  a  gold  horse-shoe  in  its  folds,  and  a 
brand-new  fawn-colored  Fedora  hat,  to  say  nothing 
of  sulphur-colored  gloves  with  black  stitching.  The 
face  that  bent  down  so  close  to  the  door,  I  further 
saw,  was  shaved  close,  with  a  distinct  pink  and  cop- 
per tone  showing  through  a  generous  brushing  of 
talcum  powder.  And  then  I  understood. 

It  was  Michael  O'Toole,  got  up  regardless,  come 
to  carry  off  his  true  love  in  swan's-down.  It  was 
my  old  friend  Mike,  alias  Pinky  McClone,  ventur- 
ing forth  to  do  away  with  one  Wendy  Washburn 
whom,  doubtless,  he  had  as  yet  failed  to  meet,  judg- 
ing from  the  immaculate  condition  of  his  apparel 
and  the  somewhat  irate  expression  of  his  face.  For 
the  skeleton-blank  with  which  Pinky  was  so  busily 
trying  to  open  that  door  was  not  behaving  as  it 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        331 

ought  to  behave.  And  to  make  sure  that  it  would 
continue  in  that  line  of  conduct,  I  quietly  reached 
over  and  doubly  locked  the  door  with  its  safety- 
catch.  Yet  before  doing  this  I  had  to  fight  down  a 
strong  impulse  to  do  just  the  opposite  thing,  and  even 
assist  Pinky  in  his  illicit  entrance  into  that  house. 
For  one  moment,  in  fact,  I  was  greatly  tempted  to 
slip  back  the  latch  and  duck  for  cover,  leaving  Pinky 
free  to  step  into  the  presence  of  his  lady-love  and  let 
that  sartorial  fricassee  of  his  do  its  worst.  But  this 
was  driven  out  of  my  head  by  my  suddenly  catch- 
ing sight  of  a  layer  of  court-plaster  along  a  well- 
defined  bump  just  above  Pinky's  left  ear. 

Had  I  been  less  interested  in  that  bump,  and  in 
its  origin,  I  suppose,  Pinky  himself  would  never 
have  caught  sight  of  me.  But  Pinky,  suddenly  flat- 
tening his  nose  against  the  glass,  clearly  saw  me  on 
the  other  side  of  the  door  and  as  clearly  concluded 
that  I  once  more  lay  at  the  root  of  his  troubles. 

He  acted  with  both  despatch  and  determination. 
In  other  words,  he  suddenly  backed  off  and  "shoul- 
dered" that  door  the  same  as  a  patrolman  shoulders 
open  a  flat-door  when  he  finds  smoke  coming  out 
through  its  cracks.  There  must  have  been  nearly 
two  hundred  pounds  of  brawn  behind  that  bull-like 
charge,  for  the  lock-bar  splintered  away  the  wood- 


332        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

work,  with  a  crash,  and  the  hinged  frame  set  with 
glass  swung  back  and  left  me  staring  at  Pinky  the 
same  as  a  small  boy's  guinea-pig  in  a  cigar-box 
stares  at  its  owner  when  he  suddenly  lifts  the  lid. 

But  Pinky  was  in  no  mood  for  mere  contempla- 
tion. There  was  both  hate  and  rage,  the  blind 
unreasoning  rage  of  the  Celt,  on  his  russet- jowled 
face  as  he  stood  there,  breathing  hard  and  spasmodi- 
cally opening  and  closing  the  brawny  fingers  encased 
in  the  sulphur-colored  gloves. 

"So  it's  you !"  he  said,  with  a  swear-word  almost 
as  sulphury  as  his  gloves  themselves. 

I  could  see  his  face  twitch,  and  an  iron  look  of 
cruelty  narrow  his  pale  blue  eyes  to  almost  a  pin- 
point. My  prophetic  bones  told  me  what  was  com- 
ing, as  plainly  as  though  he  had  told  it  to  me  in  so 
many  words.  I  could  see  the  blind  fury  that  was 
gathering  for  the  final  eruption.  And  I  knew  there 
was  no  use  in  arguing  about  it,  just  as  I  knew  it  was 
too  late  to  try  to  escape.  There  wasn't  even  time,  I 
remembered,  to  get  the  pearl-handled  Colt  out  of  its 
hiding-place. 

"So  it's  you — still  at  it!"  he  repeated,  with  his 
nostrils  dilated  like  a  running-horse's  and  a  tremor 
shaking  the  brawny  hulk  of  his  body. 

"You  coward!"  I  gasped,  in  little  more  than  a 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE        333 

whisper,  for  I  knew  by  this  time  that  my  words 
would  be  few. 

His  hand  shot  out  and  caught  me  by  the  throat. 
He  held  me  there,  masterfully,  easily,  the  same  as 
a  marketman  holds  a  chicken  by  the  gullet.  Painful 
as  that  grip  was,  and  terrified  as  I  stood,  it  did  not 
keep  me  from  hearing  the  shrill  call  of  a  voice  from 
the  stairway  behind  me. 

"Michael!"  sounded  that  call  of  horror,  of  warn- 
ing, of  unutterable  unbelief.  And  I  knew  that  it 
was  the  girl  in  the  swan's-down  who  was  speaking. 

Her  Michael,  however,  was  intent  on  other  things. 
That  call  was  repeated,  this  time  with  a  tremolo  of 
resentment,  of  disgust.  But  all  Michael's  thoughts 
were  centered  on  one  movement.  I  knew  what  that 
movement  was  going  to  be,  yet  I  had  no  way  of 
stopping  it,  no  way  of  even  countering  it.  For  in 
that  movement,  I  could  see,  he  intended  to  pay  back 
more  than  one  old  score.  It  was  a  fool's  way  of 
doing  it,  but  it  was  the  only  way  he  saw  open  to  him. 
And  it  wasn't  fear  that  made  me  wince  as  I  saw  the 
sulphur-covered  hand  suddenly  draw  up  into  one 
compact  clump,  it  was  more  the  thought  of  the 
absurdity  of  the  movement  and  the  almost  pathetic 
and  harebrained  blindness  of  the  man  behind  the 
movement. 


334        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

Then  I  must  have  shut  my  eyes,  for  I  knew  what 
was  coming.  The  next  moment  that  brutal  mallet 
of  a  fist  in  the  sulphur-colored  glove  struck  me  full 
in  the  face.  It  did  not  hurt,  for  the  world  went  sud- 
denly black  about  me  and  I  seemed  to  be  wafting 
gently  downward  at  the  same  time  that  about  a 
thousand  feather-ticks  seemed  to  be  emptied  all 
about  me  to  ease  that  fall.  I  felt  nothing,  after 
that.  But  through  that  sudden  descent  into  dreami- 
ness I  once  more  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear,  the 
tremulous  scream  of  a  woman,  a  scream  of  incredu- 
lity and  repugnance,  a  scream  of  loathing  and 
enlightenment.  And  then  I  sank  down  into  a  gray 
and  feathery  nothingness  where  there  was  neither 
sound  nor  light  nor  sulphur-colored  gloves. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

I  DON'T  know  how  long  it  was  afterward  that 
I  woke  up.  But  gradually  I  became  conscious 
of  a  very  pleasant  swaying  and  rocking  motion.  It 
seemed  like  being  lulled  on  the  topmost  branches 
of  a  pine-tree  waving  in  a  sleepy  evening  breeze. 
It  left  me  so  contented  that  I  was  quite  willing  to 
lie  there.  Then  the  lazy  whispering  of  pine  branches 
merged  into  a  louder  sound,  and  one  much  more  like 
the  purring  of  machinery.  So  I  finally  decided  to 
open  my  eyes  and  investigate. 

It  startled  me  a  little  to  find  that  I  could  only 
half-way  succeed  in  this  effort.  For  one  eye,  I  dis- 
covered, altogether  refused  to  open.  And  that 
shook  the  last  of  the  drowsiness  out  of  me. 

"Where  am  I?"  I  asked  of  nobody  in  particular, 
as  I  made  an  effort  to  sit  up  in  the  swaying  leather 
seat  into  which  I  was  wedged  by  means  of  three  or 
four  heavy  sofa-pillows. 

I  could  open  one  eye,  but  that  was  all.  For  across 
my  other  eye,  I  discovered,  there  was  a  linen  band- 
age. And  under  this  bandage,  I  further  found,  was 

335 


336        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

a  generous  slice  of  raw  beefsteak.  But  with  that 
one  good  eye  I  was  able  to  see  that  I  was  in  an  auto- 
mobile and  that  this  automobile  was  once  more  tak- 
ing me  down  through  the  streets  of  what  was  unmis- 
takably New  York. 

Bent  over  the  wheel,  close  beside  me,  I  could 
make  out  a  clear-eyed  and  firm-lipped  young  woman. 
And  my  second  blink  at  her  convinced  me  of  the  fact 
that  it  was  Clarissa  Bartlett  herself. 

That  made  me  sit  up.  It  was  not  so  easy  as  it 
sounds,  for  my  head  seemed  to  be  the  size  of  a 
Zeppelin  and  I  could  feel  a  distinct  sense  of  burning 
under  the  sticky  surface  of  the  raw  beefsteak. 

The  next  thing  that  came  to  my  attention  was  the 
fact  that  the  girl  driving  the  car  wore  a  very  fami- 
liar-looking coat  of  Hudson  seal.  The  memory  of 
where  it  had  come  from  brought  the  past  suddenly 
back  to  me. 

"Feeling  better  ?"  asked  the  girl  at  the  wheel.  She 
seemed  inclined,  on  the  whole,  to  give  me  little  atten- 
tion. Things  of  more  moment,  it  was  plain,  were 
occupying  her  mind. 

"Yes,"  I  told  her.  And  I  might  have  added  that  I 
was  also  feeling  a  little  less  superior.  But  instead 
of  doing  that  I  readjusted  the  slab  of  beefsteak  over 
my  blackened  eye. 


THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        337 

"Do  you  need  anything?"  was  the  next  question 
from  the  young  woman  at  the  wheel. 

"Another  head,"  I  grimly  acknowledged. 

We  went  on  again  in  silence,  for  several  blocks. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  just  what  happened 
back  in  that  hall?"  I  finally  asked.  That  question 
was  prompted,  I  think,  more  by  a  desire  to  have  her 
relate  with  her  own  lips  the  misdeeds  of  Michael 
O'Toole  than  by  any  mere  desire  for  information. 

"I'd  rather  not  talk  about  it,"  was  Clarissa  Bart- 
lett's  very  decided  answer.  But  there  were  certain 
things  which  did  not  and  could  not  escape  my  atten- 
tion. She  was  with  me,  and  not  with  her  Michael. 
The  earlier  look  of  languor  and  revolt  was  no  longer 
on  her  face.  She  was  very  pale,  I  could  see,  for  she 
was  a  woman  who'd  had  a  sudden  and  vast  awaken- 
ing. And  there  was  a  newer  note  about  her  as  she 
adroitly  tooled  her  car  down  through  the  more 
crowded  areas  of  Broadway,  a  note  of  decisiveness, 
a  note  of  firm-lipped  determination  to  face  the  worst 
that  life  might  have  in  store  for  her.  And  it  was  a 
good  deal  of  a  change  from  what  I  had  seen  earlier 
in  the  day. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  I  asked,  for  I  noticed  that 
we  were  once  more  rounding  Central  Park. 

"Home !"  was  the  girl's  brief  reply. 


338        THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

"Why?"  I  inquired. 

"We'll  know  that  much  earlier  than  you  expect," 
announced  Clarissa  Bartlett  The  next  minute  she 
had  swung  in  beside  the  curb  and  brought  the  car  to 
a  stop.  I  glanced  up,  with  my  one  good  eye,  at  the 
limestone  front  of  the  house  that  towered  beside 
us.  I  knew  it  at  once.  It  was  the  house  of  intrigue 
which  I  had  so  hurriedly  left  the  night  before. 

"Shall  I  come?"  I  asked  the  girl  who  was  already 
getting  down  from  the  car-seat.  For  something 
about  the  newer  demeanor  of  hers  tended  to  leave 
me  less  self-assertive  than  I  had  been. 

"Of  course,"  was  her  curt  reply  as  she  stepped 
across  the  sidewalk.  She  passed  within  two  feet  of 
what  I  knew  to  be  a  plain-clothes  man  posted  there. 
But  she  ignored  him  as  completely  as  though  he'd 
been  a  gargoyle,  or  a  newel-post  figure  belonging  to 
the  limestone  steps  up  which  she  was  so  purpose- 
fully striding. 

I  could  see  her  finger  play  on  the  electric  bell.  It 
pressed  again  and  again.  It  prodded  there.  It 
jiggled  and  danced  and  see-sawed.  But  it  was  sev- 
eral minutes  before  there  was  any  response  to  that 
authoritative  summons. 

Then  one  of  the  heavy  front  doors  opened,  ever 
so  little,  and  two  timorous  and  quite  colorless  faces 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        339 

peered  out  through  the  aperture.  And  for  the  life 
of  me  I  couldn't  keep  from  laughing  as  I  squinted 
up  at  those  two  apprehensive  old  faces.  They  made 
me  think  of  a  couple  of  white  mice  peering  out 
between  the  bars  of  a  cage.  For  I  saw  at  a  glance 
that  it  was  old  Ezra  Bartlett  and  his  brother  Enoch. 
Those  two  old  brothers,  however,  now  looked  more 
than  worried.  They  looked  unhappy  and  harried 
and  altogether  uncertain  as  to  what  new  calamity 
was  about  to  befall  them.  And  I  feel  quite  sure  they 
would  have  slammed  and  locked  that  door  in  our 
faces,  had  not  Clarissa  Bartlett  been  a  little  too  quick 
for  them.  She  defeated  that  intention,  as  book 
agents  do,  by  occupying  the  door-opening  with  her 
own  slender  body. 

"Come  on !"  she  commanded,  with  a  motion  over 
her  shoulder  to  me,  for  she  was  already  in  through 
the  door  by  this  time  and  silently  but  deliberately 
defying  any  movement  to  close  it. 

I  none  too  willingly  followed  her  into  that  house 
of  complicated  uncertainties.  She  strode  across  the 
hall  and  opened  a  door  on  the  right.  Then  she  made 
a  motion  toward  the  two  timorous-eyed  old  spirits 
hovering  about  in  the  shadowy  background. 

"I'd  like  the  three  of  you  to  wait  in  here  until  I 
come  down,"  she.  announced  in  what  I  was  begin- 


340        THE   HOUSE    OF   INTRIGUE 

ning  to  see  might  be  called  a  constitutionally  imperi- 
ous manner. 

She  did  not  tarry  for  more.  Things  of  moment, 
apparently,  awaited  her  above  stairs.  And  I  could 
see  my  two  old  conspiratorial  friends  sidle  silently 
into  the  room  after  me.  We  all  sat  down,  watching 
the  door. 

It  was  old  Ezra  Bartlett  who  spoke  first. 

"You'd  best  beware  of  that  young  woman,"  he 
proclaimed  in  a  venomous  yet  guarded  whisper. 

"Did  you  happen  to  be  addressing  me?"  I  in- 
quired, attempting  to  fix  him  with  a  cold  and 
haughty  stare.  But  it's  no  easy  thing  to  be  cold 
and  haughty  when  you've  only  got  one  eye. 

"I  tell  you  that  woman's  an  impostor,"  hissed  out 
the  old  man,  anxiously  watching  the  open  door. 

"And  what  do  you  two  old  blisters  regard  your- 
self as?"  I  coldly  inquired. 

"What  does  she  say?"  demanded  old  Brother 
Enoch,  with  one  hand  cupped  behind  his  ear. 

"She  insinuates  that  we're  a  couple  of  impostors," 
Ezra  Bartlett  peevishly  explained. 

"Well,  ain't  we?"  demanded  the  other. 

But  Brother  Ezra  ignored  that  interrogation. 

"By  gad,  ma'am,"  he  told  me  with  unexpected 
heat,  "if  you  don't  see  that  you're  being  hoaxed,  if 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        341 

you  don't  understand  that  you're  being  duped  and 
deceived  and  made  a  Jumping- Jack  of,  you're  a 
bigger  fool  than  I  took  you  for." 

"And  whom  do  you  hold  responsible  for  all  this  ?" 
I  calmly  inquired. 

"No  one  but  that  man  Washburn!"  was  Ezra 
Bartlett's  sibilant  answer. 

"And  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish  he's  got  us  in  for!" 
concurred  Brother  Enoch. 

"Well,  what  do  you  intend  doing  about  it?"  I 
inquired. 

My  tranquillity  seemed  to  exasperate  Ezra  Bart- 
lett  beyond  all  endurance. 

"Do  about  it?"  he  piped,  in  an  ecstasy  of  rage. 
"Do  about  it?  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do 
about  it.  If  they  don't  let  us  out  of  here  inside  of 
half  an  hour,  I'm  going  to  burn  this  house  down!" 

Incendiarism  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  habit  with  the 
occupants  of  that  incomprehensible  mansion. 

"I  really  wouldn't  do  that,"  I  quietly  explained 
to  him.  "For  that's  what  the  girl  up-stairs  tried  to 
do.  And  it  only  ended  in  having  'em  lock  her  up !" 

"Well,  they  can't  lock  us  up!"  the  old  scoundrel 
announced  with  much  vigor.  "If  anybody's  going 
to  get  locked  up  for  all  this,  it's  that  young  Wash- 
burn!" 


342        THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"But  where  is  this  man  Washburn?"  wearily 
demanded  the  other  old  scoundrel. 

That  question  remained  unanswered.  For  a 
woman  had  crossed  the  hall  and  stepped  into  the 
room.  She  wore  the  uniform  of  a  trained  nurse. 
And  I  could  see  at  once  that  it  was  Alicia  Led- 
widge. 

She  stopped  and  stared  at  the  three  of  us,  with  a 
look  of  wonder  in  her  customarily  tranquil  eye. 
Then  she  stepped  over  to  my  side,  stared  at  the 
bandage  about  my  head,  and  slowly  turned  my  face 
to  the  light  so  that  she  could  see  it  better.  Her  look 
of  wonder,  I  found,  had  deepened  into  one  of  indig- 
nation. 

"Who  did  that?"  she  asked,  still  looking  at  the 
bit  of  beefsteak  so  neatly  embedded  in  linen. 

"Michael!"  was  my  grim  response,  with  an 
upward  movement  of  the  head.  "Her  Michael !" 

She  stood  there  for  a  moment  or  two,  without 
speaking.  But  I  could  almost  hear  the  wheels  of  her 
brain  going  round,  like  a  watch  with  its  case  open. 

"Does — does  she  know  it?"  the  woman  in  the  uni- 
form finally  asked. 

"She  ought  to,"  I  announced.    "She  saw  it !" 

I  could  perceive  a  slow  change  creep  up  over  that 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        343 

intently  studious  face.  The  look  of  questioning 
uncertainty  merged  into  one  of  deliverance,  of 
relief,  of  gratitude. 

"Thank  God!"  she  devoutly  and  quite  imperson- 
ally exclaimed. 

I  didn't  altogether  resent  her  spirit  of  gratitude. 
What  I  mostly  resented  was  being  the  involuntary 
and  casual  instrument  of  it. 

"I'm  sorry  I  can't  see  things  the  way  you-  do,"  I 
somewhat  icily  explained. 

"No,  of  course  you  can't!  But  don't  you  under- 
stand how  it's  made  her  see  things?  How  it  has 
brought  her  light,  when  she  was  so  blind,  so  terribly 
blind?" 

"You  mean  opened  her  eyes  by  closing  one  of 
mine !"  was  my  somewhat  embittered  comment. 

But  the  abstracted  gaze  of  the  woman  in  the  uni- 
form continued  to  ignore  me. 

"What  a  beast !"  she  ruminated  aloud,  rolling  the 
word  triumphantly  about  her  tongue,  as  though  it 
were  a  chocolate-drop.  "Oh,  what  a  beast!" 

And  then,  oddly  enough,  as  though  that  mention 
of  the  beast  had  been  able  to  conjure  him  up  out  of 
thin  air,  the  subject  of  our  conversation  suddenly 
appeared  in  the  doorway. 


344        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

He  appeared  side  by  side  with  Copperhead  Kate, 
and  it  wasn't  until  I  swept  them  with  a  second  glance 
that  I  discovered  they  were  handcuffed  together. 

That  enforced  union,  I  could  see,  was  as  distaste- 
ful to  Pinky  McClone  as  it  was  to  Copperhead  Kate 
herself.  But  I  no  longer  gave  them  much  thought> 
for  the  next  moment  I  saw  that  they  were  being 
herded  into  the  room  by  Big  Ben  Locke  himself. 

"Sit  down  there!"  was  his  curt  command,  as  he 
pushed  his  two  prisoners  toward  a  Louis-Seize  sofa 
of  brocaded  silk.  And  they  sat  down  on  that  fra- 
gile-legged sofa,  eying  each  other  with  open  hos- 
tility. 

Then  the  Chief  seemed  to  see  me  for  the  first  time. 

"Hello,  Baddie!"  he  said  as  easily  as  though  he 
wrere  accosting  me  over  his  office  desk. 

"Hello !"  I  guardedly  replied,  for  at  that  particu- 
lar moment  there  were  quite  a  number  of  things 
worrying  me.  In  the  first  place,  I  was  wondering 
what  had  become  of  Wendy  Washburn.  And  I  was 
perplexed  as  to  Bud  and  what  could  have  happened 
to  him.  And  I  was  further  troubled  by  the  thought 
that  the  black  club-bag  was  still  nowhere  in  sight. 

"That's  a  great  piece  of  work  you've  been  doing 
for  the  office,  Baddie,"  acknowledged  the  airily 
approving  Big  Ben,  with  a  frown  over  his  shoulder 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE        345 

at  the  couple  on  the  sofa,  who  were  still  jerking  so 
fretfully  at  each  other's  clinking  wrist-bones.  They 
reminded  me  of  twins  in  a  nursery  bed,  accusing 
each  other  of  trespass  on  private  territory.  And 
they  looked  as  if  they  would  gladly  and  readily  have 
bitten  each  other's  ears  off. 

"Whose  office?"  I  inquired. 

"Our  office,  of  course!"  was  Big  Ben's  prompt 
retort.  But  I  was  thinking  of  other  things. 

"Where's  Bud  Griswold?"  I  demanded. 

It  wasn't  Big  Ben  who  answered  that  question, 
but  Copperhead  Kate  herself. 

"Oh,  it's  up  to  that  king  of  snitches  to  keep  him- 
self safe,"  she  announced  with  her  mirthless  cackle 
of  a  laugh  that  made  me  think  of  a  guinea-hen. 
"You  can  bet  he  wasn't  going  to  let  anything  inter- 
fere with  his  fade-away!" 

"He's  gone?"  I  gasped. 

"Sure  he's  gone — gone  where  this  bunch  will 
never  >ee  him  again.  And  what's  more,  he  took 
your  bag  of  junk  with  him.  Trust  Bud  for  that !" 

I  knew  what  this  would  mean.  Bud  had  always 
been  a  "clean"  worker.  I  remembered  his  method. 
He  never  left  any  loose  trails.  When  he  took  gold, 
he  always  melted  it  down,  no  matter  what  it  might 
lose  in  the  process.  And  when  it  came  to  Tiffany 


346        THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

ice  he  always  picked  the  stones  from  their  settings 
and  disposed  of  them  singly.  That,  in  fact,  was 
why  he  had  always  preferred  ice.  A  pearl  was 
always  a  pearl,  and  a  diamond  always  a  diamond. 
It  could  be  deprived  of  its  identity  by  removal  from 
its  setting,  but  its  commercial  value  remained  the 
same.  And  if  Bud  had  carried  off  that  club-bag  it 
was  only  too  plain  that  it  was  gone  for  good. 

"Is  this  woman  lying?"  I  asked  Big  Ben.  And 
I  could  see  the  flash  of  hate  from  Copperhead  Kate's 
pale  green  eyes  as  I  put  the  question  to  him. 

"That  woman'd  better  keep  her  trap  shut,"  was 
the  answer  of  the  Chief,  ignoring  both  my  question 
and  his  prisoner  together. 

"But  what  I  want  you  to  do,  Baddie,  is  to  get 
after  this  guy  Griswold,  and  get  after  him  right 
away.  You  know  his  tricks.  And  you  know  his 
trails.  So  the  sooner  you  slip  out  on  the  job  of 
rounding  him  up  the  better !" 

I  squinted  up  at  Big  Ben  with  my  one  good  eye. 

"Why  should  I  go  after  Bud  Griswold?"  I 
demanded. 

"Because  I — because  our  office  wants  him 
rounded  up,"  was  the  Chief's  matter-of-fact  reply. 

"Well,  what  am  I  to  you,  or  your  office?"  I 


THE    HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        347 

inquired,  remembering  my  last  quarter  of  an  hour 
in  that  same  office. 

"My  dear  girl,  we're  both  going  to  forget  about 
that  little  flare-up  of  yours,"  he  condoningly 
announced. 

"But  I  haven't  forgotten  about  your  little  flare- 
up,"  I  pointedly  reminded  him. 

"But,  good  heavens,  Baddie,"  he  contended,  with 
a  great  air  of  injured  innocence,  "you  don't  s'pose 
I  was  responsible  for  that,  do  you?  Now  that  you 
know  the  lay  of  the  land?  Now  that  you  see  things 
straight  ?" 

"That's  just  the  trouble,"  I  told  him,  "I  haven't 
been  able  to  see  things  straight!" 

He  looked  at  me  with  well- feigned  astonishment, 
almost  with  impatience. 

"Well,  what  happens  to  be  stuck  in  your  craw?" 
he  inelegantly  inquired. 

There  were  a  good  many  things  stuck  there,  and 
I  intended  to  let  him  know  it. 

"In  the  first  place,  whose  house  was  that  up  the 
Hudson,"  I  demanded,  with  a  gesture  of  contempt 
toward  the  morose-eyed  Michael,  "where  you  gath- 
ered in  this  big-hearted  wop  with  the  East  Four- 
teenth Street  get-up?" 


348        THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE 

I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  Pinky  wince  at 
that  unflattering  reference  to  his  attire. 

"That  was  Washburn's  summer  home!" 

"Wendy  Washburn's?"  I  demanded,  with  a  gasp. 

"Of  course!"  replied  the  Chief. 

I  let  this  sink  in.    Then  I  asked  my  next  question, 

"Then  what  was  this  crook  McClone  doing  up  at 
that  house?  And  at  this  house,  too?" 

"Working  a  blackmail  scheme  for  which  he'll  get 
about  ten  years,"  was  the  Chief's  curt  retort. 

"Not  on  your  life!"  morosely  yet  vigorously 
interpolated  Pinky,  who,  apparently,  like  so  many 
of  his  kind,  prided  himself  on  nursing  a  working 
knowledge  of  the  law. 

"Then  what  brought  this  woman  to  this  particular 
house  to  rob  the  wall-safe?"  I  inquired.  And  I 
could  hear  Copperhead  Kate's  snort  of  anger  at  my 
contemptuous  phrase  of  "this  woman." 

"That,"  said  Big  Ben,  "was  what  you'd  call  a 
coincidence,  and  nothing  more.  She  and  that  jail- 
bird working-mate  of  hers  got  an  inside  tip  that 
there  was  good  pickings  here — and  she  happened 
to  sneak  in  when  there  was  considerable  else  going 
on  around  the  premises." 

"Did  that  tip  come  from  these  two  old  weasels 
here?"  I  demanded,  designating  the  two  old  uncles 


THE    HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        349 

who  sat  so  wistfully  and  yet  so  peevishly  hunched 
up  on  the  far  side  of  the  room. 

"Hey?"  cried  Brother  Enoch,  with  his  hand 
behind  his  ear. 

"What's  that?"  snapped  out  Brother  Ezra,  with 
war  in  his  faded  old  eye. 

"Those  two  old  feebs!"  was  Big  Ben's  none  too 
flattering  exclamation.  "Hasn't  it  ever  struck  you 
that  these  two  old  ginks  are  a  little  nutty?" 

It  had  not.  But  I  found  no  chance  to  deny  it, 
for  that  indirect  accusation  had  brought  Ezra  Bart- 
lett  out  of  his  chair  like  a  hornet  out  of  its  nest. 

"Nutty?"  he  piped  in  his  shrill  and  tremulous 
falsetto  of  indignation.  "We're  no  more  nutty  than 
you  are.  We  may  have  been  paid  to  come  here  and 
act  the  fool,  but  we  didn't  come  here  to  be  called 
crooks  and  accused  of  stealing  out  of  wall-safes  and 
killing  young  women !  We — " 

"The  less  you  two  old  guys  talk  the  better !"  Big 
Ben  Locke  vigorously  reminded  him. 

"But  I've  stood  too  much  of  this  without  talking, 
and  now  I'm  going  to  have  my  say  out.  D'you 
understand  ?  I'm  going  to  say  what  I've  got  to  say 
and  I'm  going — " 

"Just  a  minute,"  I  broke  in,  as  soothingly  as  I 
could.  "Who  was  it  paid  you  for  this  work?" 


350        THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"That  man  Washburn  did,"  was  the  old  weasel's 
retort. 

I  remembered  what  Clarissa  Bartlett  had  told  me, 
and  once  more  I  found  considerable  to  think  over. 

"Then  do  you  mean  to  say  that  Wendy  Wash- 
burn  also  paid  you  to  waylay  me  after  leaving  that 
office  in  the  Asteroid  Building?" 

I  could  see  Big  Ben's  eyes  challenging  the  smaller 
man.  But  it  was  plain  that  he  wasn't  to  be  intimi- 
dated. 

"He  did." 

"But  how  did  you  know  I  was  going  to  be  in  that 
building,  or  at  that  office  ?" 

Again  Big  Ben  tried  to  silence  the  little  old  weasel. 
But  things  had  gone  too  far  for  silence. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  going  to  that  office.  I'd 
been  posted  outside  of  this  man  Locke's  office  and 
told  to  follow  you." 

"You'd  been  posted  there?"  I  repeated,  turning 
slowly  about  on  Big  Ben.  "Then  this  old  man  knew 
I  was  going  to  bump  into  just  what  I  $d  bump  into, 
on  that  particular  afternoon?"  I  demanded,  facing 
the  big  detective. 

Big  Ben  shifted  uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the 
other. 

"What's  the  use  o'  messing  around  with  small 


THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE        351 

stuff  like  that,"  he  demanded,  "when  we've  got  real 
trouble  right  here  under  our  nose?" 

"I  want  you  to  answer  my  question !" 

"What  question?"  he  equivocated. 

"I  want  to  know  if  you  knew  that  just  what  hap- 
pened in  your  office  the  other  afternoon  was  going 
to  happen?" 

"Well,  what  about  it  ?"  he  evaded. 

"There's  just  one  thing  about  it;  if  that  whole 
thing  was  a  frame-up,  I  want  to  understand  just 
what  it  was  for?" 

Big  Ben  tried  to  brush  me  aside. 

"Say,  Baddie,  you'll  sure  make  one  grand  little 
sleuth,  with  that  grand  jury  style  o'  yours!" 

"What  was  it  for?"  I  repeated. 

My  one  good  eye  met  both  of  his  somewhat  puz- 
zled eyes.  Then  for  an  uncertain  moment  he  looked 
back  over  his  shoulder,  toward  the  shadowy  hall. 
Then  he  looked  back  at  me. 

"It  was  for  the  sake  of  your  immortal  soul,"  was 
his  sudden  and  somewhat  reminiscent  answer.  "And 
if  that's  not  as  clear  as  mud  to  you,  you'd  better  ask 
young  Washburn  himself,  for  I  see  he's  just  coming 
in  through  that  door!" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

I   REALIZED,  as  I  looked  up  and  saw  Wendy 
Washburn  step  into  the  room,  that  one  of  the 
biggest  crosses  a  woman  has  to  bear  is  to  find  her- 
self unable  to  be  indignant  with  a  man  when  she 
wants  to  be  indignant  with  him. 

I  had  every  reason  to  know  there  was  a  reckon- 
ing ahead  for  Wendy  Washburn,  a  reckoning  which 
would  show  him  up  in  colors  which  he  couldn't  pos- 
sibly be  proud  of.  But  even  while  I  told  myself 
that  I  ought  to  abhor  him,  I  couldn't  help  feeling 
wordlessly  and  foolishly  glad  that  he  was  safely 
back  in  that  room. 

As  I  glanced  at  him  the  first  time,  even  in  that 
uncertain  light,  I  could  see  that  he  looked  pale  and 
tired  and  worried.  But  it  wasn't  until  I  glanced  at 
him  a  second  time  that  I  saw  he  was  carrying  a  black 
club-bag  in  his  hand.  And  I  knew,  by  the  quietly 
triumphant  light  in  his  eye,  that  this  bag  wasn't 
empty. 

Yet  before  any  one  there  could  change  his  posi- 
tion or  speak  to  him  Alicia  Ledwidge  had  stepped  to 

352 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        353 

his  side.  She  did  so  with  a  note  of  quiet  authority 
which,  for  a  moment,  I  was  tempted  to  resent.  But 
I  had  no  way  of  knowing  what  happened  between 
them  as  they  talked  together,  low  and  earnestly. 
Once,  and  once  only,  he  turned  and  stared  at  me. 
But  he  did  so  with  a  look  of  pale  abstraction  which 
convinced  me  that  he  was  thinking  of  entirely  dif- 
ferent things.  And  I  realized  that  things  were  con- 
tinuing to  shape  themselves,  that  day,  to  make  me 
feel  much  less  superior  than  I  had  felt. 

So  I  sat  there,  looking  meekly  around  me.  I  real- 
ized, as  I  did  so  that  we  were  a  very  interesting  col- 
lection, on  the  whole.  But  I  realized  at  the  same 
time  that  I'd  seen  about  enough  of  that  collection. 
I  was  tired  of  them,  from  Copperhead  Kate  and  her 
green  snake's  eyes  to  the  little  weasel  in  black  and 
Pinky  McClone  in  his  sulphur-colored  gloves.  I 
was  tired  of  wearing  a  compress  of  beefsteak  on  one 
eye.  I  was  blue  and  lonesome,  and  felt  pretty  much 
like  a  dying  duck  in  a  thunderstorm.  I  was  home- 
sick for  something  which  I  couldn't  explain,  even 
to  myself,  although  a  still  voice  somewhere  under 
my  fifth  rib  kept  whispering  there  was  a  better  place 
for  beefsteak  than  over  one's  cheek-bone. 

And  it  was  Big  Ben  Locke's  sonorous  chest- 
tones  that  brought  me  suddenly  out  of  myself. 


354        THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

"D'you  mean  to  say  you  got  your  stuff  back?" 
he  demanded  of  Wendy  Washburn,  staring  at  the 
club-bag. 

My  Hero-Man  slowly  moved  his  head  up  and 
down. 

"But  how'd  you  do  it?"  insisted  the  Lil'  Old  Bill- 
Pinkerton-Of-The-East. 

"I  had  the  chance  of  grabbing  Griswold,  or  the 
family  junk,  when  Griswold  passed  the  bag  to  a 
lady  confederate  of  his." 

"What  confederate?"  demanded  Big  Ben. 

"She  answers  to  the  name  of  Third-Arm  Annie. 
And  I  chose  the  junk !" 

"That  cat !"  cried  Copperhead  Kate,  with  a  quick 
note  of  jealousy  in  her  voice.  But  I  was  paying 
little  attention  to  Copperhead  Kate's  personal  feel- 
ings, just  then,  for  I  was  carefully  watching  Wendy 
Washburn' s  face,  and  Wendy  Washburn  was  in 
turn  carefully  watching  mine.  For  I  knew,  as 
plainly  as  though  he  had  said  it  in  so  many  words, 
that  he  had  deliberately  allowed  Bud  Griswold  to 
make  his  get-away,  when  he  might  have  done  just 
the  opposite,  had  he  so  chosen. 

"And  how'd  you  get  Annie  ?"  pursued  the  matter- 
of-fact  Big  Ben. 

"I  got  her  at  the  exact  moment  when  she  was 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE       355 

trying  to  check  the  bag  at  the  parcel-room  in  the 
Grand  Central  Station.  It  was  a  very  clever  dodge, 
and,  I  suppose,  they  had  hit  on  it  beforehand.  But 
when  I  stepped  up  for  the  bag  the  woman  simply 
melted  away  and  lost  herself  in  the  crowd !" 

"So  he's  ready  to  slough  with  that  snake  again  !'* 
Copperhead  Kate  venomously  and  audibly  medi- 
tated. Like  all  other  women,  she  clearly  disap- 
proved of  rivals.  But  her  meditations  were  cut 
short  by  a  querulous  question  from  one  of  the  old 
weasels. 

"You  may  have  got  your  bag  back,"  he  quavered, 
"but  what  we  want  to  know  is:  Where  is  that 
body?" 

"Body?"  echoed  Wendy,  not  understanding  the 
question. 

It  was  the  quiet-eyed  Alicia  Ledwidge  who  inter- 
posed at  this  point. 

"He  means  the  body  of  that  poor  maid,  the  girl 
called  Margaret  Hueffer,"  she  pointed  out  to  my 
Hero-Man.  Then  she  turned  to  old  Ezra  Bartlett. 

"That  body  was  taken  away  by  the  undertaker,  as 
happens  with  quite  a  number  of  bodies  in  this  city," 
she  calmly  and  prosaically  explained  to  the  two 
round-eyed  old  conspirators. 

"Then  why  were  we  told  to  claim  that  this  young 


356        THE   HOUSE   OF  INTRIGUE 

— this  young  whipper-snapper  of  a  girl  here  had 
killed  her?"  demanded  irate  old  Brother  Ezra. 

"We'd  better  cut  out  this  wrangling!"  suggested 
Big  Ben  Locke,  as  he  moved  over  toward  where  his 
two  prisoners  sat  on  the  Louis-Seize  sofa.  He  made 
a  curt  motion  for  them  to  get  to  their  feet. 

Wendy  Washburn,  at  the  same  moment,  stepped 
over  closer  to  the  chair,  where  I  sat.  I  could  not  see 
the  expression  on  his  face,  for  I  refused  to  look  at 
him.  But  something  about  that  expression,  appar- 
ently, was  distasteful  to  Copperhead  Kate.  For  as 
she  rose  to  her  feet  she  emitted  a  loud  and  fearless 
hoot  of  derision.  Then  she  swung  about  and  faced 
me. 

"It's  just  like  you  wax-doll  ribs,"  she  called  out 
with  a  snort,  "to  freeze  on  to  something  worth  about 
half  a  million !" 

"Worth  about  half  a  million?"  I  repeated,  being 
so  wide  of  the  mark  for  a  moment  that  I  thought 
she  was  still  harping  on  the  club-bag  and  the  loot  it 
held. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  I  asked  her. 

"I  mean  that  guy  there,"  she  retorted,  pointing 
straight  at  Wendy  Washburn.  "And  you  know 
what  he's  worth,  or  you  wouldn't  be  workin'  over- 
time ropin'  it  down!" 


THE   HOUSE   OF    INTRIGUE        357 

I  don't  know  whether  I  changed  color  or  not. 
But  I  could  feel  a  wave  of  blind  rage  sweep  right 
through  me,  from  top  to  toe,  and  I  did  my  best  to 
wither  that  woman  with  a  look.  If  I  wasn't  alto- 
gether successful  in  this,  it  must  have  been  because 
of  the  beefsteak  bandage. 

"Roping  it  down?"  I  repeated,  feeling  that  my 
nerves  were  at  last  getting  the  better  of  me.  "Well, 
the  whole  lot  of  you  can  take  it  from  me  that  I'm 
going  to  get  out  of  it  now,  and  get  out  of  it  for 
good.  For  I  say  again  that  I'm  tired  of  it,  and  tired 
of  everybody  in  it.  I'm  tired  of  being  carted  around 
and  being  man-hauled  and  being  made  a  catspaw  of. 
I'm  tired  of  being  lied  to.  I'm  tired  of  crooks  and 
cowards,  and  if  from  this  day,  there's  any  way  of 
getting  through  life  without  linking  up  with  tliat 
breed,  I'm  going  to  find  it!" 

My  voice  was  unsteady,  and  a  little  shrill  from 
excitement,  I  suppose,  but  it  didn't  seem  to  have  the 
electrifying  effect  I  had  looked  for. 

All  it  did,  in  fact,  was  to  bring  a  sudden  and 
quite  unlooked-for  exclamation  from  Wendy  Wash- 
burn. 

"Clear  out  of  here,  the  whole  pack  of  you!"  he 
coolly  commanded,  "for  I  want  to  talk  to  this  young 
lady!" 


358        THE   HOUSE    OF    INTRIGUE 

There  was  a  note  of  authority  in  his  voice  which 
I  couldn't  help  resenting,  just  as  there  was  a  ring 
of  triumph  in  it  which  I  couldn't  quite  understand. 

"Lady?"  scoffed  the  departing  Copperhead 
Kate,  over  her  shoulder.  But  that  open  scorn  of 
hers  was  cut  short  by  the  sharp  tug  on  the  wrist  with 
which  Pinky  McClone  favored  her.  I  could  afford 
to  ignore  the  taunt.  But  I  wasn't  sorry  to  see  her 

g°- 

I  knew  that  Wendy  Washburn  was  standing  in 
front  of  me,  waiting  to  speak.  But  I  had  no  inten- 
tion of  looking  up  at  him,  for  I  could  feel  my  under- 
lip  trembling,  and  I  didn't  want  him  to  find  it  out. 

That  silence  lasted  so  long,  however,  that  it  began 
to  seem  silly  to  me.  So  I  decided  to  break  it. 

"What  do  you  want  to  talk  to  me  about?"  I 
demanded,  though  for  the  life  of  me  I  couldn't  make 
it  sound  as  stern  as  I  wanted  to  make  it  sound. 

"About  the  most  important  thing  in  all  the 
world,"  was  Wendy  Washburn's  perfectly  solemn 
reply. 

I  looked  up  at  him,  at  that.  I  couldn't  help  it,  for 
I  wanted  to  make  sure  of  his  meaning.  And  I 
noticed,  as  I  looked  at  him,  that  he  seemed  suddenly 
different.  He  seemed  to  be  taking  his  turn  at  appear- 
ing less  superior,  less  sure  of  himself.  But  it  wasn't 


THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE       359 

this  air  of  humility  that  disturbed  me.  It  was  the 
discovery  that  he  looked  tired  and  worn,  a  little  old 
and  drawn  about  the  eyes.  And  that  made  me 
sorry  for  him,  in  spite  of  myself. 

"What  do  you  want  ?"  I  asked,  trying  to  make  the 
question  as  hard  and  curt  as  I  was  able. 

"I  want  you  to  help  me,"  was  his  answer.  He 
spoke  very  quietly,  but  something  about  his  voice 
started  a  pulse  going  on  each  side  of  my  neck  just 
above  my  coat-collar. 

"But  surely  you  heard  me  say  that  I  was  tired  of 
people  who  are  deceitful  and  crooked  and  cow- 
ardly," I  reminded  him,  steeling  my  heart  against 
that  unfair  spirit  of  humility  with  which  he  was 
trying  to  outflank  my  will  before  it  could  dig  it- 
self in. 

"And  you  put  me  in  with  that  class?"  he  quietly 
inquired: 

"You  put  yourself  in  with  that  class,"  I  reminded 
him,  recalling  the  things  that  had  come  to  me  dur- 
ing those  last  two  days  of  storm  and  stress. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  said,  with  a  return  of  his  more 
authoritative  tone,  "you've  just  said  you  were  sick 
and  tired  of  dishonest  people,  of  crooks,  as  you 
called  them.  Well,  that's  the  one  thing  I've  been 
wanting  to  do,  I've  been  trying  to  do.  You  thought 


360       THE   HOUSE   OF   INTRIGUE 

that  you  could  only  live  by  excitement — and  I 
thought  it  would  be  easy  to  show  you  that  this 
wasn't  true,  simply  by — well,  by  giving  you  an  over- 
dose of  it.  Then  things  got  muddled  up,  as  you  see 
they  have.  Whether  I  was  right  or  wrong,  /  wanted 
to  make  you  tired  of  all  that  other  kind  of  life.  I 
tried  to  make  you  tired  of  it.  But  I  never  dreamed 
these  other  things  were  going  to  happen  to  you!" 

"Then  you  knew  I  was  in  Locke's  office?"  I  asked 
him,  compelling  myself  to  calmness. 

"Yes,  I  knew  it — and  I  wanted  you  out  of  it,"  he 
meekly  acknowledged. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  wanted  you  to  help  me,"  he  replied, 
after  a  moment's  pause. 

"At  what?"  I  asked. 

"At  the  most  dangerous  calling  a  man  can  pos- 
sibly have — that  of  doing  nothing !" 

I  was  thinking  of  the  girl  above  stairs;  and  the 
thought  of  her  was  like  an  asbestos  curtain  between 
us. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you've  been  doing  rather  too 
much,"  I  amended. 

"Baddie,"  he  pleaded,  "don't  be  too  hard  on  me !" 

But  there  was  too  much  to  remember. 

"And  you  knew,  all  along,  that  Bud  Griswold 


THE    HOUSE    OF   INTRIGUE        361 

wasn't  what  I  had  imagined  him  to  be?"  It  was 
a  hard  question  to  ask,  but  I  had  to  purge  my  soul 
of  it. 

"Yes,  I  found  out  certain  things.  And  when  he 
got  his  conviction,  in  Detroit,  I  was  hoping  that  it 
would  be  giving  you  your  chance." 

"But  why  couldn't  you  have  been  open  with  me 
about  it?"  I  demanded. 

"I  knew  it  was  hopeless,"  he  admitted.  "And  the 
way  you  feel  about  it  now  proves  me  more  than 
ever  right." 

I  was  more  afraid  of  his  humility  than  of  his 
masterfulness.  I  resented  the  way  in  which  he 
seemed  able  to  appeal  to  my  sense  of  pity.  For  no 
woman  can  feel  sorry  for  a  man  and  hate  him  at 
the  same  time. 

I  stood  up,  with  one  hand  on  the  back  of  my  chair, 
though  I  hadn't  intended  to  make  the  movement  a 
dismissive  one. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  been  a  trouble  to  you,"  I  said, 
trying  to  give  an  imitation  of  the  Sphinx  on  an 
autumn  night,  "almost  as  much  trouble  as  that 
cousin  of  yours  up-stairs!" 

"Claire?"  he  said,  with  a  troubled  brow. 

"She  has  told  me  of  your  intention  to  marry  her," 
I  went  on,  though  the  words  didn't  come  easy. 


H  O 


PUP 


